Fruit Of The Poison Tree
by Gil Shalos1
Summary: Should the sins of the father be visited on the son? For McCoy and Markham, that question becomes more than academic theology. Someone's future is in the balance - but the answer lies in uncovering the secrets of the past. Follows 'Inevitable Discovery'.
1. Impervious

Title: Fruit Of The Poison Tree

Summary: Should the sins of the father be visited on the son? For McCoy and Markham, that question becomes more than academic theology. Someone's future is in the balance - but the answer lies in uncovering the secrets of the past.

Rating: M for coarse language, suggestive themes, sexual situations.

Disclaimer: I do not own "Law and Order", nor any of the characters therein. I am making no profit from this.

Characters: Jack McCoy, Arthur Branch, OFC, Serena Southerlyn, Mike Logan, Megan Wheeler, Robert Goren, Alexandra Eames, Ron Carver, Daniel Ross, Lennie Briscoe, Ed Green, Abbie Carmichael, Anita Van Buren, Emil Skoda, Tracey Kibre, Danielle Melnick, Nora Lewin, Melinda Warner, extras.

A/N: This story follows "Inevitable Discovery" and is another installment in the same series. It references events in the earlier stories but if you haven't read them I hope you can pick up here.

If ff net would let me add as many genres as I want, this story would be angst, drama, crime, hurt/comfort, romance, suspense and friendship.

If you read this and think at the beginning that there is some out-of-character behavior, I hope you will give me the benefit of the doubt and stick with it. I promise, everything will be explained by the end.

I am not NY native or indeed an American, as my woefully inadequate knowledge of NY geography and the American legal system makes perfectly clear! I do, however, love Law and Order. Down here in Oz, we get the episodes years late and often out of order, which has led to my long-standing confusion between who is in the show when and why and how old they are. My fannish imagination therefore has its own chronology, which differs from the show's canon in only three substantial ways: Lennie Briscoe didn't retire; Jack McCoy was snap-frozen ten years ago (since that's the age he is in the reruns that are all our free-to-air channels see fit to give us); and my series kicks off at the beginning of series seventeen, so it is substantially AU to everything from then on.

Cover image by HelloImNik

* * *

**Impervious**

* * *

_Office of EADA Jack McCoy_

_10__th__ Floor_

_One Hogan Place_

_7 pm Thursday May 3__rd__ 2007 _

* * *

McCoy rubbed his hand over his eyes, unreasonably tired given how early it was. "Have you got the witness statements on Licardi?" he asked Regan.

"Right here." Regan leaned across his desk to hand the file to him. "You want to look at the post-it flags, they're the inconsistencies."

McCoy flipped the file open and began to read. "Good," he said after a moment. "Excellent, in fact. Where did you dig up this hawker?"

"Thank Ed Green's instincts for that," Regan said, smiling at the compliment.

"Puts Licardi at the scene," McCoy said, closing the file and handing it back. "Get his lawyer in here tomorrow and let's see if we can get him to take a plea."

"You don't think we can get him on Murder Two?" Regan asked.

"It's still dicey without the gun. But no deal unless he gives us something."

"Okay." Regan looked down at the files in her lap. "That's it, I think."

"Amazing," McCoy said. "Seven o'clock and we're done for the day. Again."

"Fourth time this week," Regan said, smiling.

McCoy looked at the stack of files by his blotter. The two of them churn through more cases than anyone else on the floor, with less overtime. Their position at the head of the 10th floor conviction league is unassailable. _Not new for me._ He knew it was for Regan, knew she enjoyed being talked about as a kick-ass prosecutor, one half of the DA's crack team of McCoy and Markham. _She's learnt more about the law in the last six months than in all of law school_. But that wasn't what had made the difference – any one of the ADAs on the floor could match her for legal knowledge. _No, _McCoy thought, _it's because Regan reads witness statements and police reports and sees weak points and inconsistencies like other people see full stops and capital letters. _By the time she brought a case to McCoy, trial ready, he had everything he needed to crack the defense like a rotten walnut. It wasn't police thinking, exactly – they had detectives and DA's investigators for that. _Case building_, McCoy thought, as Regan tucked her files under her arm and turned to the door. _Not the law, not the detecting – making our case and destroying theirs. _

It more than made up for the fact that she needed to ask his guidance on points of law and procedure far more often than any ADA he'd worked with before.

"Want to get a drink?" he asked before she could leave, standing and sauntering over to his clothes rack.

"Sure," Regan said, turning back. "There's a bunch of us going down to the Lord Roberts, why don't you join us?"

_T__he definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again, expecting a different response. _This had to be the twentieth time he'd suggested to Regan that they get a drink, maybe discuss their most pressing trial over a meal, since Arthur Branch had read them both the riot act. Any hint of scandal, and Regan – compared to McCoy, a completely expendable employee – would find herself out of a job. She'd taken it much more seriously than McCoy had – a week after that meeting, McCoy had realized Regan was avoiding even riding alone in elevators with him, let alone any social contact. He dropped by Abbie Carmichael's for a meal – and Regan was out with friends. As for the possibility of the two of them having a drink without a chaperoning crowd of ADAs – _she's made that clear on more than one occasion it's out of the question. _

"Thursday night drinks with the tenth floor wasn't what I had in mind," McCoy said.

"Jack…" Regan said, a hint of reproach in her voice.

He opened the side door that led to Colleen's desk, and beyond that, Arthur's office, and started to get changed behind it. "What, we can't be friends, now?"

"We can be friends at work," Regan said.

"Then let's have a drink _here_," McCoy said, pulling on his jeans.

"I'm due at the Lord Roberts. Come on," Regan said. "You should show your face there, anyway. All those ADAs worship at your feet – spend half-an-hour, make them feel special."

"Oh, they worship at my feet, do they?" McCoy said, reaching for his jacket. "_You_ seem to be over that."

"Well, what can I say," Regan said serenely, "I guess I'm impervious."

_Impervious_. He could remember occasions when she hadn't been so impervious, could remember what her fingers felt like as she ran them through his hair, could remember when the catch of breath in her throat when he touched her proved she was anything _but_ impervious. Could remember, too, when he could have honestly said they were friends not just _at work_ but when the shadows cast by working in the criminal justice system turned into impenetrable darkness in the hours before dawn.

They knew each other's nightmares.

_Friends. At work._

"Fine," McCoy said. "The Lord Roberts. Nothing for Arthur to complain about in _that_, is there?"

"Nothing at all," Regan agreed.

Bill Fitzgerald was catching the elevator at the same time, and Regan suggested the three of them split a cab. McCoy might have admired the dexterity with which she negotiated the logistics of making sure she was never alone with him, not for a minute, if he hadn't found it so irritating. _As if two people can't share an elevator or a taxi without there being a sex scandal_. How many times had he shared late-night take-away in the office with his assistant over the years? How many cab rides, working lunches, post-trial drinks, with Sally, Diane, Claire, with Abbie –

Honesty forced McCoy to admit that perhaps Regan's caution wasn't entirely disproportionate.

The _Lord Roberts _wasn't crowded on a weeknight. There were already a few ADAs there – Qiao Chen from Rackets and Connie Rubirosa from Trials were arguing over the jukebox and McCoy recognized several faces in the knot of people by the pool tables.

Chen and Rubirosa reached a compromise and Chen pressed a button. McCoy slung his bag into the booth Fitzgerald had commandeered and turned to follow Regan to the bar.

"Mr. McCoy!"

McCoy turned back to see a small woman with auburn curls smiling up at him. After a second, memory supplied her name. _ADA Keri Dyson, Identity Theft_.

"Keri," he said, returned her smile. "How are you?"

"Great!" she said. "I was just going to the bar – can I get you a drink?"

"Let me get _you _one," he said reflexively, regretted it when she blushed a little. Their paths had crossed from time to time since she'd started at the DA's Office a few years ago, and Keri had always paid him that little bit of extra attention that signaled _interest_. McCoy had never taken her up on the unspoken offer. Not that she was unattractive. _Quite the opposite_, he thought, looking down at her wide brown eyes, at the way she filled out her suit. But he'd always felt there was something – something almost _predatory_ about her. He didn't have any objection to a woman taking the initiative, but …

But having made the offer, there was no graceful way for McCoy to get out of it. He extended his generosity to Fitzgerald and went to the bar for a scotch for himself and Fitzgerald and a cosmopolitan for Keri. When he came back she was perched in the booth, talking to the Trials ADA about a case she was working on – an extensive fraud that had left several people all but destitute. McCoy listened with half his attention, contributing his opinion when it seemed warranted, watching the pool game going on across the room. Michael Omardi from Fraud was cleaning up, playing with a clean finesse that indicated he hadn't spent all his university years in the library. Regan shook her head when the cue was offered to her, and Connie Rubirosa was coaxed into playing by a young man McCoy only vaguely recognized as a new Narcotics ADA. She was terrible, and he took every opportunity to correct her play, arms around her to show her how she should be holding the cue. Rubirosa didn't seem to mind, but her game didn't noticeably improve.

"Don't you think?" Keri asked.

McCoy scrambled for the thread of the conversation. "You might have a federal violation there. Have you talked to our colleagues in the Southern District?"

She gave him a brilliant smile and touched his arm. "That's exactly what I've been trying to tell our Bureau head, but he won't listen !" She took a sip of her drink, and then turned a little in her seat, the movement bringing her closer to him. "I love this song, don't you?"

Listening, McCoy could hear a woman's sultry voice crooning about wanting all, or nothing at all. "Doesn't sound like Sinatra," he quipped.

Keri smiled. "Diana Krall," she said. "I saw her play last year. _Half a love never appealed to me_." Her voice was soft but melodic. "_If your heart never could yield to me ... then I'd rather have nothing at all._"

"Are we going to lose you to Broadway?" Fitzgerald teased.

Keri blushed. "Sorry," she said. "I just love this song."

"Don't be sorry," McCoy said, as on the jukebox Diana Krall told them all that _if it's love, there's no in between. _"Never apologize for enthusiasm. Life's boring without it."

She smiled gratefully. "Another drink? I'm buying, this time."

"Sure." McCoy slid out of the booth to let her up. Across the room the pool game had broken up. As the jukebox hummed into silence a few piano notes rose above the hum of voices and heads turned toward the old, slightly-out-of-tune upright in the corner of the room. As the first notes of 'All or nothing at all' drifted out, a brief parting in the crowd let McCoy see Qiao Chen, jacket off, at the keyboard. McCoy joined the other attorneys crowding around the piano as Chen picked up the tempo, giving the melody some swing, and then shifted to a ragtime version, earning a scatter of applause. _Wouldn't have thought he'd have it in him, _McCoy thought,remembering thestitched-up young lawyer from the Firienze case, seeming completely consumed by his obsession with furthering his own career.

Chen grinned, his usually careful coiffure in slight disarray from the energy of his playing, wiped sweat from his face with his sleeve and segued into _Honeysuckle Rose, _hammering out the stride chords,before finishing off with a quick verse about someone whose feet were too big.

Pounding out the final chords, he turned to Connie Rubirosa and caroled "Your pedal extremities are _obnoxious_!"

She laughed and swatted his shoulder playfully and Chen grinned up at her, played a final resounding chord, and swung around on the stool.

He saw McCoy and sobered instantly, reaching for his jacket. "Mr McCoy," he said stiffly. "I was just – " Hurriedly, he started to pull on his jacket, then raked his hair into place. "It was just – just a bit of _jazz_, sir."

"Show a bit more _jazz_ in the office and you might find yourself moving up out of Rackets," McCoy said.

Chen stared at him, and then slowly slipped his jacket off again. "Yes, sir," he said thoughtfully.

"Play us another, Qiao," Omardi urged.

Chen flashed his quick grin again and turned back to the piano. "Here's one for our boss," he said slyly.

It took McCoy a moment to recognize the melody, but he caught on when Chen began to sing slightly off key: "Give them an act with lots of _flash_ in it – and the reaction will be passionate!"

"That's terrible, Qiao," Bill Fitzgerald said. "You couldn't carry a tune in a _bucket_!" He struck a pose beside the piano and picked up the verse. "How can they see with see-quiii-ns in their eee-yes?"

"That's a little unfair," Keri said beside McCoy, holding out a drink for him to take. "You're not like that."

"I'm choosing to take it as a compliment," McCoy said.

"Give 'em the old flim flam flummox," Fitzgerald and Chen chorused. "Throw 'em a fake and a finagle!"

McCoy took a sip of his drink as the ADAs watching the performance laughed, or tried not to – _depending on how scared they are of me_. The scotch tasted oddly salty and he pulled a face.

"Did I get the wrong thing?" Keri asked anxiously. "Scotch, right?"

"Right," McCoy said. He tasted the drink again. "Must have had sour-mix in the glass."

"Let me see," Keri said. She took the glass from his hand and sipped delicately as Chen and Fitzgerald wobbled out of key, declaiming _As long as you keep them way off balance, they'll never spot you've got no talent._ "Seems fine. Maybe you have too much sodium in your diet." She gave the glass back to him.

McCoy took a solid hit of the scotch. It still tasted salty to him but burned smooth down his throat, and he didn't want to insult Keri by telling her she clearly had no sense of taste.

Chen and Fitzgerald finished their duet and Chen shook his head when asked for another tune. "I think I've gone too far already," he said with a glance at McCoy, half-nervous, half-defiant. McCoy grinned back and raised his glass.

"Perhaps not _that_ much jazz," he said. "In the office."

Chen relaxed and smiled more openly.

McCoy turned away from the piano as the other prosecutors started to drift back to the pool table. He had to admit, Regan's suggestion had been a good one. The easy camaraderie of his colleagues, the atmosphere of the bar, had combined to make him feel more relaxed than he had for weeks. He finished his drink, watching Regan lean across the pool table, looking for her next shot. The light over the table was unforgivingly harsh on her lean face and angular figure. It suddenly seemed absurd to McCoy that he had spent weeks trying to persuade her to change her mind, to ignore Branch, to join him for a drink, a meal, in the hope they would lead to more. _The city is full of women. __**One Hogan Place**__ is full of woman. _

_Many of them prettier than Regan, when it __comes down to it._

As if summoned by his thought, he felt a hand on his arm and looked down to see Keri watching him with a smile. The contrast with Regan couldn't have been stronger. Keri was all soft curves, curly auburn hair, dimpled chin, nicely rounded figure clearly discernible beneath her suit. She ran her hand along his arm and he felt her fingers as clearly as if she touched bare skin.

"Penny for them?" she said.

"I was just thinking that life is short," McCoy said. "Too short to waste time on – on hopeless causes."

"That's an _odd_ thought for one of us," Keri said, laughing. "Isn't the DA's Office the definition of a hopeless cause?"

He laughed down at her. _A pretty woman, a night out – _he was filled with a sense of well-being. "And a penny for _your_ thoughts?"

"I was thinking we should have another drink," Keri said.

Her smile made him a little dizzy. The sudden surge of desire when she brushed against him as they went back to their table made him dizzier. Keri steadied him, laughing, holding his arm a little too long. "I'll be right back," she said, and went to the bar. McCoy watched the way the swing in her hips made her body move inside her clothes. On her way back with their drinks she caught him watching, smiled, and slipped into the seat next to him.

She leaned against him a little, clinking her glass against his. "Here's to the _Lord Roberts_," she said. McCoy was very aware of her thigh pressed against his beneath the table. He took a sip of his drink, unable to help glancing downward to see a hint of the swell of her breast, the edge of a lacy bra, as she leaned forward. Imagination supplied what the rest of her body would look like and his body responded immediately and forcefully, so forcefully he had to shift in his seat a little.

Keri caught the movement, glanced down and with the hint of a smile put her hand on his thigh.

Her touch burned and when she moved her hand a little, tracing circles on the fabric of his jeans he gasped.

"Why, Mr McCoy," Keri purred, her hand sliding higher. "I always thought we'd get along, but I didn't realize we'd like each other quite this much."

McCoy's mouth was too dry for words as her fingers fluttered over his fly. He took her wrist and moved her hand away, gulping more scotch to moisten his mouth. "I'm going to embarrass myself right here if you keep doing that."

"I wouldn't want you to be embarrassed," Keri said. She moved her hand to less acutely dangerous territory. McCoy slipped his arm around her waist as she leaned against him, feeling the soft swell of her hip beneath his hand. She sighed, and turned her face up to his. It was very easy – _and probably unwise_ – to bend his head and kiss her. McCoy didn't care how unwise it was to be kissing a junior ADA in a room full of colleagues. He wanted her more than he could remember ever wanting a woman and as their lips met his mind went blank of all thoughts of caution, wisdom, decorum. All he could think of was how soft her lips were, how sweet her mouth, how intoxicating the feel of her body pressed against his. He gather her more closely to him as she teased his lips with her tongue, each flickering touch sending and electric shock of lust running straight to his balls. His hand found her breast, as heavy and yielding as he had imagined, and she moaned a little against his lips, her hand tightening on his thigh.

A part of his mind was aware that they were coming close to a public indecency charge but it seemed a small price to pay to continue his delirious exploration of her body.

"We ought to get out of here," Keri said, lips brushing his.

"Absolutely," McCoy said hoarsely. When he tried to stand to follow her to the door the room spun around him and he steadied himself against the table. Keri laughed, and pulled his arm over her shoulders.

"Lean on me," she said. "I'll get you home."

McCoy glanced back as they reached the door. Regan had paused in her game of pool, and was watching them, her expression unreadable.

_You had your chance_, McCoy thought. Deliberately, he dropped his hand to Keri's backside and gave her an ostentatious squeeze before following her out into the dark.

* * *

.oOo.


	2. Precedent

**Precedent**

* * *

The alarm drilled through McCoy's head like a jackhammer. He struggled to open his eyes, fumbling on the bedside table until he managed to knock the alarm onto the floor where it went on howling, only slightly muffled by being face-down on the carpet.

_Oh god. _His head hurt. _Hurt is not a strong enough word. _The dull throbbing in his temples was not quite migraine quality, but it came close. _How much did I have to drink last night?_

McCoy forced himself to open his eyes and sat up. The movement made him aware of how nauseous he was and he bolted for the bathroom, reaching the basin just in time. The spasms of retching seemed to increase the pain in his head exponentially and when he could catch his breath he leaned against the bathroom counter, eyes closed and pulse racing, willing the pounding in his skull to subside.

_God, how much __**did**__ I have to drink last night_, he thought.

He couldn't remember.

Sweat broke out on his face. He couldn't remember.

Not, maybe four, maybe five if you count the half-glass of wine that was left in the bottle at the end of the meal can't remember, but –

The night was a blank.

Drinking at the Lord Roberts with Keri. Two drinks there. Then –

_Blank. _

His stomach turned and he leaned over the basin again, coughing up a little sour bile. Never in his life had Jack McCoy been drunk enough to lose an entire evening into a black hole of alcoholic amnesia. _And it's not like there haven't been times I wished I could_. Even that one night he'd have given anything to forget, that night when, barely able to stand, he'd staggered into his apartment to hear the ringing phone, to hear Adam Schiff's voice cracking out of the answering machine, even that night he could recall with agonizing clarity. But last night –

_Nothing._

He splashed water on his face, swallowed a palmful and retched it up again. _Jesus._

_Nothing._

By the time he made it in to the office his stomach had settled a little but the night before was still a void. He sank into his desk chair and pulled the nearest file toward him, staring sightlessly at the words as they blurred in front of him. _People v Chan_ … _precedent of … motion in limine - _

"Well, you look like crap," Regan said from the doorway. McCoy looked up to see her studying him with what he thought of as her 'cop face': impersonal, incurious. _Impervious. _"Rough night?"

"I'm not in the fucking _mood_, Regan," he snarled irritably. Her eyes widened a little at the edge to his voice, but she only shrugged a little.

"I've rescheduled O'Connell and his lawyer for two," she said, exactly as if McCoy's answer had been reasonable. For some reason that annoyed McCoy further, and he grunted an acknowledgement, turning back to his file. "Okay, then," Regan said, voice light and even. "I'll be prepping for today's arraignments."

"Then go," McCoy said shortly, frowning at his papers.

After a moment he heard his door close and looked up again, thinking that Regan had closed it as she left.

Keri Dyson stood just inside his office, door closed behind him. She held a large buff envelope defensively in front of her chest.

"ADA Dyson," McCoy said. _Two drinks with her last night, and then … what?_ "What can I do for you?"

She took a step forward and the light from the window fell full across her face. One eye was black and swollen, her lip split, her cheek bruised.

"Jesus," McCoy said involuntarily, springing to his feet. "What the – Keri, did someone – ?"

Her lip trembled, her eyes filled with tears.

"Sit down," McCoy urged, taking a few quick steps toward her. "Sit – "

"Don't touch me!" she cried desperately, backing away. "Don't come any closer!"

The fear in her voice froze him where he stood.

_Two__ drinks with her last night. And then …_

_What?_

The shape of the answer to that question loomed up out of the dark. His stomach twisted and he felt sweat spring out cold on his face. _Don't touch me!_

_Don't you come near me! _

Not Keri's voice, but one he knew much better. One he'd heard every day of his life until the day he packed his bags and walked out the door, bound for law school, bound for New York City, bound for somewhere – _anywhere_ – else. _No, John, don't! _

Different voice, but the same fear.

"Tell me," McCoy said. His voice sounded strange to him, far away. _Please, John, don't! _"Tell me."

"Tell _you_?" Keri asked. "Don't you – are you trying to pretend you don't know?"

McCoy shook his head. "I don't – don't remember. What happened. We had a couple of drinks. After …" He shook his head again. "I don't remember."

"You got loaded at the _Lord Roberts_," Keri said, voice dripping with acidic contempt. "I walked you home. I didn't want the _tabloids_ to get a picture of you passed out in a gutter somewhere. I walked you home. And when I got you there – I wanted to leave. And you – didn't want me to."

_No, John, please, stop! _

"Did I – " He couldn't get the words out. "Is that – your face. Are you saying – ?"

"If you want to pretend you can't remember, fine," Keri said angrily. "But if you think that will let you get away with it, you can think again." She fumbled with the envelope she carried, got it open and yanked out a folder. She edged closer to him, slapped the folder down on his desk and backed away. "It's all there. Take a look."

Numbly, McCoy picked the folder up and looked at the pages inside. _Mercy General ER … Keri Dyson … _A clinical list of injuries, a doctor's signature.

"I never thought you'd be the kind of man who'd – " Keri's voice faltered. "I never thought – "

"Neither did I," McCoy said, but it was a lie. _No, John, don't – stop! Please! _Nature or nurture, either way, he'd always known what his family inheritance was, always told himself that he wouldn't, he _couldn't_, turn into his father.

Always wondered if he could erase that heritage by determination alone.

_And now I know._

_Now I know I can't. _

"Are you pressing charges?" he asked Keri. His voice was cool and professional, and he heard it as if it belonged to someone else.

"That would finish you," she said. "And maybe you deserve to be finished. But – but maybe there's a way out." She shrugged. "You were drunk. You acted – out of character, I don't know you well enough to tell. But should you lose everything because of it?"

"Mercy beyond the law is above your pay scale," McCoy said. _As if we're talking about somebody else._ "You're an officer of the court. You know your responsibilities."

"The law also provides for restitution," Keri said. "For making things right. And you could – you could make _restitution_, Mr. McCoy. You could make things right." Her gaze hardened a little. "I've been stuck down in Identity Theft for a year. I'll never make it up the ladder unless I get some real prosecutions on my record. I hear there's an opening in Narcotics."

"You want a transfer to Narcotics?" McCoy asked.

"You can make it happen," Keri said. "And if you did … I wouldn't feel the need to walk down to Complaints and tell them about how I was assaulted last night."

McCoy looked at her for a moment. "You want me to get you transferred – promoted. And in exchange, you won't press charges against me."

"That's about it exactly," Keri said, nodding.

_All those cases I prosecuted, all those crooked lawyers and corrupt cops, using their power in the system to create a little wriggle room for themselves … And me, so smug, so superior, so certain it would never be me. _

"I need to make a phone call," McCoy said slowly.

"I'll wait," Keri said.

"I think you should," McCoy told her. He picked up the receiver and weighed it his hand. _Final things should have more fanfare_.

But they never did. _The slam of a screen door, the recorded message on a pager service, the tone on the line as you wait to dial … _Final moments came quietly.

He dialed an extension, waited for the voice.

* * *

.oOo.

* * *


	3. One Phone Call

**

* * *

**

One Phone Call

* * *

McCoy held the receiver to his ear, looking across his desk at Keri Dyson as she waited for him to tell Mike Cutter in Narcotics that he was getting a new ADA. He felt as if he was watching himself through a thick layer of glass, but habit carried him forward.

The ringing stopped, replaced by a familiar voice.

"Regan," McCoy said. "I need you to come into my office right away."

"What the hell – " Keri said, taking a quick step towards him.

"This needs more than one phone call," McCoy told her, hanging up the phone. "Just wait."

The door behind Keri opened and Regan hurried in. "What is it?" she asked McCoy.

He took a second to answer her, studying her, the way she looked at him, without doubt, without hesitation. _As if I'm still the man who deserves that faith. _As he hesitated, Regan looked at Keri and gasped.

"Jesus, Keri, who the hell – " Her fists clenched as if she wanted to deal with whoever had beaten Keri herself.

"Regan," McCoy interrupted quietly. He picked the pad of Complaints forms from his desk and held them out to her, along with a pen. "I need you to fill out two complaints and walk them downstairs for me."

"Uh-huh," Regan said, taking the papers. "On who, for what?"

"What the hell are you doing?" Keri asked sharply.

"Remembering my responsibilities as an officer of the court, Ms Dyson," McCoy said evenly. He turned back to Regan. "Regan, the first is against ADA Keri Dyson, for coercion in the second degree. Complaining witness, John J McCoy."

"You'll regret that," Keri said angrily.

"I doubt it," McCoy said. "Regan. Fill in the form."

Regan's eyebrows lifted but she started writing.

"I'm not sticking around for – " Keri started to say, moving toward the door.

"Ms Dyson, if you leave this room before Ms Markham does, I'll have you held pending arraignment," McCoy told her. Keri stopped still.

"You _have_ got brass balls," she said wonderingly.

Regan finished writing and ripped the form off the pad. "What's the other complaint?" she asked McCoy.

"Against John J McCoy – "

Regan's pen skidded over the page and her head shot up. "_What_?" she asked.

"For assault in the second degree," McCoy went on steadily, ignoring her interruption. "Complaining witness, Keri Dyson."

Regan stared at him, and then swung around to stare at Keri, who looked just as astounded. "Complaining – what the – is this some kind of joke, Jack? I thought I was done with the rookie hazing."

"I'm not joking," McCoy said. "And neither is Ms Dyson. You need to put your pen on the paper to write, Regan." He tried to smile, aware that it was probably a grimace.

"If you think I'm going to collar you – "

McCoy opened the folder Keri had given him and leaned forward to put it on the desk in front of Regan. "Ms Dyson alleges that I caused these injuries in the attempt to commit another crime, namely, sexual assault. That's assault in the second."

"Who witnessed this alleged assault?" Regan demanded, turning to Keri. "Keri? Is this true? Why would you – "

"Regan," McCoy said quietly, and she looked back to him. "Trust me," he said. "Just fill out the forms and walk them down to the Complaints Room."

She hesitated, and he held her gaze, then let one eyelid droop in the subtlest of winks. It was a high-sign, saying as clearly as words _This is one more wild play from the Jack McCoy playbook. _Regan hesitated, and then bent over the form, filling in the required boxes.

McCoy felt a slight pang at how readily she was willing to back his play, no matter if the strategy didn't make sense to her. She would blame herself, later, he knew, for being fooled, and he regretted the necessity, but the regret was far away, beyond the blank horror that had been roaring through him since the moment he had understood what Keri Dyson was telling him.

"I'm not sticking around for this charade," Keri said angrily.

"You'll be coming with me," Regan said, getting to her feet. She picked up the file McCoy had shown her. "You've got an affidavit to swear, and charges to answer."

"I can't believe you'd do this, Jack," Keri said.

"I can't believe you'd think I wouldn't," McCoy answered.

"Let's go," Regan said calmly, but in a tone that would admit no argument. _Cop voice_, McCoy thought. He'd heard it a thousand times over the years as uniforms or detectives picked up a suspect or moved along an overly inquisitive passer-by. Regan took Keri's arm, gently, but again making it clear that she wouldn't tolerate resistance.

"Make them both priority, Regan," McCoy said.

She nodded, gave him one level look that let him know that she might be going along with him for now, but she'd expect an explanation later, and led Keri out the door.

McCoy sank heavily into his chair. For a moment he didn't move, gazing sightlessly at the sea of papers on his desk, at the trials he'd never prosecute, the arguments he'd never make, the law books he'd never need again.

_Final moments should have more fanfare._

And what would he say to Regan when she came back? _Sorry, kiddo, turns out I'm even more of an asshole than you suspected? _

He took a breath against the roiling of his gut and pushed himself to his feet. It was only a few steps to the side door of his office, a few more to Colleen's desk.

"I need a few moments of Arthur's time," he told her.

From the look Colleen gave him, McCoy guessed he looked like hell. "He's free," she said. "Go through."

"Thank you, Colleen," McCoy said. "For everything."

He turned away from her puzzled expressed and pushed open Arthur's door, that once upon a time had been Adam's door. _Oh, god,_ he thought suddenly, _Adam is sure to hear about this._

The blank horror receded enough to let him feel a keen, stabbing grief, and he hesitated on the threshold.

"In or out, Jack, make a decision," Branch said genially.

McCoy swallowed hard, and stepped into the room.

_Final moments should have more fanfare. _

_But they never do. _

* * *

._oOo._

* * *


	4. Officers Of The Court

A/N: With thanks to RebeccaInley for her beta

There's a new poll on my profile page – you can vote for which of my stories you like best, up to three.

* * *

**Officers of the Court**

* * *

Branch heard McCoy out in silence, only the expressions of surprise, disbelief, and finally anger that chased each other across his face letting McCoy know that the DA had even _heard_ his halting story.

"I'll plead guilty, of course," McCoy finished. "At arraignment. Straight to sentencing, that should minimize – "

"You'll do nothing of the sort," Branch said, cutting him off. "You'll do nothing _at all_ except sit your ass down in that chair and not make things any worse for the office."

"Arthur – "

"_Sit!_" Branch roared at him, and McCoy sat. As soon as he did he realized how glad he was to be off his feet. He ran one shaking hand over his face, hearing Branch making a phone call somewhere on the other side of the buzzing in his ears. _Don't, John, don't – _

_I'll plead guilty, __**whatever**__ Branch says,_ McCoy thought dully. _Face up to it. To what I've done. To what I've become._

_Get this over with. _

He heard the door open and tried to raise his head to see who had come in but the movement made the room spin crazily around him. Branch was at the other end of a long tunnel of darkness and seemed to be moving further away, his lips moving, his voice lost in the buzzing growing louder and louder –

A sharp exclamation by someone he couldn't see, and then a firm hand on his shoulder, and the cool lip of a glass against his mouth. _Water. _

He drank. The buzzing receded a little, the room's rocking slowed.

"Jack, can you hear me?" Regan asked, taking the glass from his lips.

McCoy managed to make a noise of acknowledgement. Regan's fingers brushed his cheek, cool and reassuring. He steadied his hand enough to take the glass from her and drain it.

"Better?" Regan asked as he lowered the glass.

"Yes," McCoy said, and she smiled, relief breaking through the impersonal kindness she wore as a mask when something called for a response from Officer Reagan, rather than ADA Markham. She touched the back of her fingers to his forehead.

"You coming down with something?" she asked.

"I wish," McCoy told her, and she frowned.

"You look like crap, Jack," Branch said. "And I wish I could tell you to take the day, but I don't think that's an option. Ms Markham, did you know about this?"

"That Mr. McCoy was sick?" Regan asked. "I thought this morning – "

"That Mr. McCoy is planning to plead guilty to charges of felony assault."

"_Plead guilty?_" Regan said, staring at Branch and then turning the same look of incredulity on McCoy. "_What?_"

"I take it you _didn't_ know," Branch said, dropping into his chair. "Even though I understand _your_ signature is on the Complaint form."

"Jack told me to write it up, to write up Keri Dyson, I thought – " Regan turned back to McCoy "I thought – it was a plan, Jack, a strategy?" she asked him. When he said nothing she went on, her voice beginning to quaver: "Wasn't it? Jack?"

"No," McCoy told her, and watched the color drain from her face. "Look, Regan, Keri brought me the evidence. The charges have to be filed. As an officer of the court, I couldn't do anything else."

"Bullshit," Regan snapped, voice tight with anger. "If you'd kicked that to someone else you know very well they would have held off on the charges pending investigation and maybe even until the Grand Jury – "

She was leaning over him as she spoke, eyes blazing, and McCoy pushed himself to his feet, forcing her to step back and look up to meet his gaze.

"And why should they hold off?" he demanded. "Why should _I_ get special treatment?"

"Unverified charges with serious consequences warrant further investigation _regardless_ who they're made against," Regan retorted, not backing away. "I would never have put that complaint in the system if I'd known – "

"I know," McCoy said quietly. "I know. That's why I didn't tell you."

Regan stared at him, comprehension dawning in her eyes. "Well fuck you too," she said at last, very evenly. "And how are we going to get you out of _this_ mess?"

"That's a damn good question, Ms Markham," Branch said. He slapped his hand down on his desk. "Dammit, Jack! The paperwork is in the system. You know how it would look if this office declines to prosecute?"

"Yes," McCoy said. "That's why I made sure it was _in_ the system before I came to talk to you."

"Yet again the great Jack McCoy makes an end-run around procedure, is that it?' Branch said.

"No – that's not – I didn't want you put in the position of having to make the decision – " McCoy protested.

"_You're_ in no shape to make this kind of decision," Regan said. "And what's more, you have no _right_ to make this kind of decision. It should be up to the ADA who catches the call – "

"And _you_ caught the call," McCoy pointed out.

"You _picked_ me to catch the call because you knew you could _flim-flam_ me into following _your_ lead!" There was an edge to Regan's voice McCoy had never heard before, and he thought he could see tears standing in her eyes. _Tears of pure rage, probably_, he thought. "Because I'm _too damn stupid_ to see through you, right?"

"Not stupid," McCoy said quietly. "But yes, I knew you'd follow my lead."

His admission took the heat out of Regan's indignation. "Why, Jack?" she asked softly.

"I'm going to plead guilty – and I don't want the whole thing drawn out by some junior ADA trying to curry favor by stretching the rules," McCoy said.

"You are _not_ going to plead guilty," Branch said.

"You can't instruct a defendant how to plead," McCoy said quickly.

"Do you think that a guilty plea will get you out of jail time?" Branch asked. "I can't be seen to do that kind of favor. And you _know_ what will happen to you in jail. Hell, Jack, half the worst criminals in the state's prisons were sent there by _you_. What do you think is going to happen when you're locked up with them?"

"I'm not asking for a favor, Arthur," McCoy said. "_Or_ looking for a deal."

"I'll tell you now, no prosecutor in this office will accept a guilty plea from you," Branch said. "I won't have a whiff of backroom dealing around this. It'll all be out in the open, in open court. Justice will be done, and justice will be _seen_ to be done."

The thought made McCoy dizzy. He'd thought the worst of it would be the sentence. It was too easy to imagine the grill door swinging shut, for once not letting him out but locking him in, _but if I can't do the time I shouldn't have done the crime_. His mind had jumped right past the possibility of sitting at the bar table on the wrong side of the aisle while a judge and jury and a prosecution team made up of his colleagues and god-knew how many reporters listened to Keri Dyson tell them exactly what had happened, exactly what kind of man he'd turned out to be … his stomach twisted and he swallowed hard.

"Fine," he managed to say. "I'll represent myself. I'll offer no evidence. You can have your show, Arthur."

Branch shook his head. "A lawyer who represents himself has a – "

"A fool for a client, I _know_," McCoy finished harshly. "I think we've all established I've fallen a little short of the wisdom of Solomon!"

"You want to be an idiot?" Branch said. "Fine! Dammit, Jack, after all the times I've bent over backwards for you and your quixotic crusades and your high-and-wide calls and your eleventh-hour hail mary passes … Always leaving the mess for someone else to clean up. Always leaving it up to someone else to save this office from the consequences. To save _you_ from the consequences. Well, not this time. You want to hang yourself, I'm happy to help you. Hell, I'll pay for the rope. In fact, I'm going to put my _second_ best tenth floor prosecutor on your case. Ms Markham, be ready to arraign Mr. McCoy this afternoon."

* * *

.oOo.

* * *


	5. Conflict Of Interest

* * *

**Conflict Of Interest**

* * *

"Ms Markham," Branch said, "Be ready to arraign Mr. McCoy this afternoon."

"You've got to be fucking _kidding_ me," Regan said flatly.

"I know I can count on you," Branch said, his voice heavy with meaning.

Regan stared at him, fists clenching. "Is this a punishment? Because I blew off that fundraiser last week?"

"I wouldn't assign a prosecutor to a case to _punish_ them, Ms Markham," Branch said. "A D-class Felony like second degree assault is exactly your pay-grade. Or are you telling me you can't do your job?"

"I have an _obvious_ conflict of interest," Regan said tightly.

McCoy tried to contemplate a full trial with himself as the defendant and Regan Markham appearing for the people. His imagination was not equal to the task. _On opposite sides of the aisle …_ it was inconceivable. He shook his head, ignored by Regan and Branch both, and reached for his wallet.

"A conflict of interest? More than anyone else in this building? Oh, really?" Branch said. "I thought I told you two to put a stop to that."

"There was nothing to put a stop to and that's _not_ what I mean," Regan said, voice rising. "I've second chaired for Jack for more than six months, that _does_ give me more of a conflict than anyone else in the building, when the jury acquits Jack'll never be clear of the suspicion I threw the case – "

McCoy realized that his wallet was still in the pocket of the coat he'd worn to work that morning. As Branch was taking breath for what was sure to be an angry tirade, McCoy took Regan's arm.

"Regan, do you have a dollar?" he asked.

"What?" Regan said distractedly, her attention still on Branch.

"Ms Markham, I'm not asking you to throw the case. I'm _telling_ you to prosecute this as hard as you would any other D felony," Branch said.

"Give me a dollar, Regan," McCoy said urgently.

"What for?" Regan asked, puzzled.

"_Ms Markham!" _Branchbellowed.

"Give me a dollar! Right now!" McCoy demanded.

Mr. Branch, it's completely inappropriate –" Regan said, fumbling in her pocket. "It would look like this office wasn't remotely interested in a fair outcome –" She found a dollar bill, pulled it out and shoved it in McCoy's hand.

"I don't need you to tell me what's inappropriate, young lady," Branch said. "I need someone I can rely on to do what has to be done – "

"Here," McCoy said, holding out the dollar bill to Regan. Bemused, she took it. He turned back to Branch. "Sorry, Arthur, Regan can't prosecute this case. It would be a conflict of interest."

"Because she's worked with you? That's never stopped this office when prosecuting its own in the past – "

"Because I just retained her to represent me!" McCoy said.

Regan and Branch both turned to look at him, their expressions of incredulity lending them a fleeting resemblance.

Regan found her voice first. "You _what_?"

"You want to prosecute me?" McCoy asked her.

"No!" Regan said instantly. "Kick your goddamn ass, maybe – "

"Then choose the other door," McCoy said.

He held her gaze, willing her to agree. _Come on, Regan, _he urged her silently. _Come on. Trust me. One more time. Trust me once more, for old times' sake._

"Fine," Regan said at last, shaking her head a little.

"Oh for – " Branch said, and threw up his hands. "Ms Markham, you can't work for private clients while you work for this office!"

"Take this as my application for leave," Regan told him.

"Leave _without_ pay," Branch said. "As for you, Jack, you're suspended _with _pay pending the outcome of your trial."

"No, I'll resign. Now," McCoy said. "You can't want your EADA, suspended or not, in court as a defendant – "

"I can't want the papers saying I forced you to resign on the basis on an untested charge, _either_," Branch said. "This is going to hurt the office enough as it is. Suspension. With pay. Innocent until proven guilty. Even you, Jack."

"I get paid and Regan doesn't?" McCoy protested. "_I'm_ the guilty one."

"Leave without pay is standard for our prosecutors when they want to take other jobs," Branch reminded him. "Do _you_ think you've been treated unfairly, Ms Markham? Because the door is behind you if you do."

"I don't think leave without pay is the _most_ unfair thing that's happened to me today, if that's what you're asking," Regan said trenchantly.

"It isn't, but I'll take that as an answer," Branch said. "The two of you, get the hell out of here. Don't stop at your offices. Turn in your badges at the security station on the way out."

McCoy turned to the door, but Regan hesitated.

"Changed your mind, Ms Markham?" Branch asked.

She lifted her chin. "No, sir."

"Then get out of here before I change mine."

McCoy walked straight past Colleen, ignoring her worried expression, heading for the elevator in the hope that he could beat the gossip mill out of the building. Regan hurried after him, catching his elbow and tugging him to a stop.

"We need to talk about who you're really going to hire," she said urgently. "They can get the arraignment held until – "

"I'm really going to hire _you_," McCoy said. "And I don't want the arraignment held. I want a speedy trial."

"Jack, I'm not a defense attorney and I'm not experienced enough to handle this case," Regan said. "The case is thin but it's still going to be hard to beat without witnesses to back you up. You need good representation, someone like Melnick or - "

"If I wanted good representation I wouldn't have hired you." McCoy regretted the words the instant they were out of his mouth. Regan's head snapped back as if he had –_hit her, oh god_ – and the color drained from her face. "I didn't mean –"

"Yes, you did," she said tonelessly.

"I want my lawyer to run the case my way. That's what I meant.," McCoy tried to explain.

"And you know you can run rings around me?" Regan said. "Like you did this morning."

"Since Arthur wouldn't let me resign, I am still technically your boss," Jack said. "So I know you'll do exactly as I say. Your job depends on it."

She stared at him, fingers loosening their grip on his arm, and he took the opportunity to start towards the elevator again.

"I'll get the arraignment held over to Monday," Regan said, catching him up.

"No special favors, Regan!" McCoy snapped.

"I've _seen_ the complaint, remember?" Regan snapped back. "It's thin as tissue. Whoever Branch puts on it will jump at the chance of a weekend to work on it. And _I'm_ not ready for court this afternoon."

"Fine," McCoy said.

"We need to meet as soon as possible," Regan said.

"You have all the instructions I need to give you," McCoy said. "Offer no evidence. No cross of the prosecution witnesses. As close to a guilty plea as you can get."

"Bullshit, Jack – " Regan said, and then stopped. "You look like hell. I don't think we should be arguing about this now. Go home and get some rest. I'll get working. Come to Abbie's tomorrow, nine sharp."

_Abbie_. Something else he hadn't considered, that Abbie would have to know. And Serena. And Jamie Ross. _Oh, god. _

_Don't, John, stop it, please …_

"Fine," McCoy said. "Whatever. But don't expect me to change my mind."

"_Why_, Jack?" Regan cried in exasperation. "I don't understand – Mr. Branch made it clear you won't get away with a misdemeanor by taking a plea – no deal on sentencing – _why_ won't you even _offer_ a defence?"

"There's one reason to plead guilty that you haven't considered," McCoy said, stepping into the elevator and turning back to face Regan.

"What?"

"That I _am_."

The doors closed on her shocked expression, and the elevator took him down.

* * *

.oOo.

* * *


	6. Old Friends

A/N: Thanks to rebeccainley for her continuing beta. Thanks for the reviews, everybody, keep 'em coming. Sorry for the slow updating schedule! And don't forget, there's a poll on my profile page where you can vote for up to three of my stories to tell me which ones you like best.

**Old Friends**

* * *

_Abbie Carmichael's Townhouse_

_4 pm Friday May 4__th__ 2007_

* * *

Regan stared down at the pages spread out on the dining room table. She brushed her fingers across them as if the inspiration that had been eluding her might seep into her fingertips.

It didn't.

She was about to pick up the top page of Keri Dyson's affidavit when she heard the front door close.

"Regan?" Abbie called.

"In here," Regan called back.

She heard Abbie's footsteps in the hall, and then the woman herself appeared, one hand pressed into the small of her back, the other resting on her swollen belly.

"You're home early," Regan said.

"At the price of a briefcase full of work," Abbie said. "You're home early too. Jack give you a leave pass?"

Regan took a deep breath. "Not exactly," she said, trying to keep her tone light. "I have good news and bad news. The good news is, it's lucky you aren't financially dependent on the money I pay you for room and board."

Abbie looked at her, gaze shrewd. "Sacked?" she asked, voice neutral.

"Leave without pay. Because – to defend – " Suddenly tears threatened as the panic she had been fighting all afternoon overwhelmed her. "Jack's charged with assault," she managed to say, and then pressed her hand over her mouth.

"What! Who?" Abbie demanded. "He finally took a swing at Gorton, didn't he?"

"No," Regan said, feeling sick. "An ADA. Keri Dyson. Says he hit her – says he _beat _her – last night. After we were all out drinking." She could hear her voice rising but couldn't slow down as Abbie stared at her in shock and dawning horror. "They left together and then this morning she came in and – " a hiccupping sob shook her and she gasped for breath "And – and – she said she wouldn't charge him if he – got her promoted – and he ordered me to write the paper on him – and I thought – I thought - "

"Take it easy, take it easy," Abbie said, putting her arm around Regan's shoulders. "Deep breaths, there you go." She pulled a chair closer and sat down. "Start at the beginning."

Regan pulled herself together and told the story, from the cab ride to the bar to McCoy's shocking final words to her. "I've been sitting here trying to work out what to do," she finished, "but, Abbie, I'm not a defense attorney! I _can't_ be the only thing between Jack and jail sentence – I'm just not good enough!"

"_He_ can't think so, if you're the one he wants," Abbie pointed out.

"He _picked_ me _because_ I'm not good enough," Regan said bitterly, "He as good as said so."

The anger that had been simmering since she had first realized how casually McCoy had played her and how _little_ he had trusted her began to boil. Shock, panic, the desperate search for answers and the sheer horror of the thought that McCoy could end up somewhere like Wyoming Correctional Facility – _god, they'd never send him to Sing Sing, would they? He can't be a security risk! _– where every second inmate would have a good reason to shank him in the showers: the emotional rollercoaster had pushed aside her anger at McCoy, at his _bone-headed, __**pig**__-headed, high-and-mighty-I'm-the-EADA-so-just-trust-me selfish goddamn manipulative –_

"Goddamn him!" she exploded, slamming her fists down on the dining room table hard enough to make the salt-cellar jump and Abbie flinch. "He played me just like he'd play a defendant! I thought – I thought I'd _earned_ better! I thought I'd proved to him that he could _trust_ me! And he treats me like _this_, the son-of-a-bitch! Makes me think it's one more Jack McCoy end-run and then waltzes in to Branch's office and announces he's going to _plead guilty_ – to something he could _never_ do! Damn, damn, _goddamn _him! I can't - " Her eyes filled with tears of mingled anger and betrayal.

"You certainly can't do him any good when you're in this kind of state," Abbie said with a certain degree of asperity.

Regan glared at her. "I'm glad you're so unmoved by this."

"Don't you dare imagine you know how I feel," Abbie said hotly. "I've known Jack a hell of a lot longer than you have, and I can't make any more sense of this woman's story than you can – or work out why the hell, even if he isn't going to tell you what he's thinking, he couldn't pick up the phone and call _me_. But this isn't the time for sulking about it." She prodded Regan hard in the arm with one finger, her gaze intimidating in its intensity. "Jack _needs_ you – needs _us_ – no matter what he might think, or say. So get your head in the goddamn game."

"Yes, ma'am," Regan said reflexively. Abbie glared at her as if Regan was being sarcastic, but then smiled a little.

"I'm used to ordering junior prosecutors around these days," she said. "I guess it's habit. I have to make some phone calls." She put her hands flat on the table and levered herself to her feet. "Go and clear your head," she ordered Regan. "Take a shower. Go for a run. Do both. Just be back at this table at six, ready to work."

"What happens at six?" Regan asked, obediently getting to her feet.

"We start sorting this mess out," Abbie said grimly.

Regan took Abbie's advice – _her orders_ – and changed into sweatpants and sneakers to hit the sidewalk. Hoping to burn off her anger at McCoy, she set a pace that had her gasping within a mile. By the time she'd made it back to the front steps of Abbie's brownstone she was thoroughly winded and drenched in sweat – and still fuming. In the shower, she scrubbed hard enough to leave her skin red, then yanked a comb through the knots in her hair, ignoring the pain. _Damn him, anyway. _Dragging her T-shirt over her head recklessly quickly, she banged her elbow on the wall of the bathroom hard enough to bring tears to her eyes.

_Damn him!_

Deliberately, she elbowed the wall again, the impact sending a sharp shock of pain up her arm.

_Damn him__, damn him, damn him!_

The pain in her arm wasn't enough. Regan clenched her fist and punched the wall as hard as she could.

The impact left a thin smear of blood on the white tiles. Regan cradled her throbbing hand, swearing under her breath, and then fumbled the tap on in the basin and held her bleeding knuckles under a stream of cold water.

_Well_, _**that**__ will teach Jack a lesson, _she thought wryly, flexing her fingers to see if anything was broken. _I guess those sessions with Skoda still have a way to go._

_At least I didn't hit __**Jack**__, this time_.

She wiped the blood off the wall with a tissue, put a Band-Aid on her bruised knuckles, and went downstairs to find out what Abbie had planned.

Abbie's phone-calls had borne fruit. There were three familiar faces around the dining room table: Serena Southerlyn, Danielle Melnick, and Sally Bell. Seated at the head of the table, opposite Abbie, was a woman Regan had never met but who she recognized: Nora Lewin, law professor and former DA.

"I can't stay for this meeting," Abbie said, "because unless I take leave from the Southern District I can't be legally hired by you, Regan, so no privilege would apply. But that doesn't apply to any one else here."

Serena was holding a sheaf of papers, and she pushed them across the table to lie in front of the only empty chair. "Contracts," she said. "We've all signed. Your signature is all that's needed to make us co-counsel."

"Not if Jack doesn't – " Regan started to say.

Nora Lewin interrupted her. "_Corin v Wabhurt_ establishes that privilege attaches when senior counsel hires assistance," the former District Attorney said with cool precision, "Whether they are legal practitioners or others covered by work-product protection, until or unless the client gives instructions to terminate the relationship." She paused, pursing her lips a little. "Sign the forms, Ms Markham. I have the impression we have a lot of work to do here."

Regan nodded, looking around for a pen. Wordlessly, Sally Bell took one from her pocket and held it out. As Regan began to sign her name on each of the four contracts, Abbie stood up.

"I'll be in the kitchen," she said. "You're going to need money for this. I'm going to open an account and start calling possible donors."

"I didn't think of any of this," Regan admitted quietly as Abbie left the room. "The cost – any of it."

"When you're an ADA, someone else always meets the bill," Nora Lewin said. "And I speak as someone who had to authorize a fair few of those bills." She smiled, and Regan found her suddenly less intimidating. "Why don't you take us through the case and we'll see where we are."

Regan took a deep breath, and for the second time in a few hours told the story, more calmly than her outburst to Abbie. When she'd finished there was a moment's silence.

"What should I do?" Regan asked at last.

"It's he said-she said," Sally Bell said. "Unless they have forensic evidence, it'll come down to credibility on the stand. You need to find out everything you can about Keri Dyson – find something to destroy her credibility."

"Does she make a habit of going home with co-workers?" Danielle Melnick asked. "Does she have a drinking problem? Does she do drugs?"

Regan nodded. "I'll start looking in to her."

"Not you," Serena said. "Stop thinking like an ADA. You're lead counsel. Hire a private investigator."

"I don't know any private investigators," Regan said.

"Know any cops?" Danielle said. When Regan nodded, she went on: "Plenty of retired police officers end up as PIs. Ask for a recommendation."

"Okay," Regan said.

"You're got a bigger problem than worrying about the trial," Nora Lewin said. "You've got a defendant who plans to plead guilty at arraignment. And no matter what Arthur Branch might say, he can't prevent that. If you can't change Jack's mind by Monday – "

"That's the ballgame," Danielle agreed grimly. "Where is Jack tonight?"

Regan shrugged. "I wasn't fast enough to stop him at Hogan Place. He's not answering his cell, or his home phone." _Not entirely true_. She'd _told_ him to go home and get some rest, she'd made no effort to stop him leaving. _The truth is, I couldn't bear to keep arguing with him – couldn't bear to know how little he thought of me as a lawyer, how little he trusted me, couldn't bear to know what else might slip out, unintentionally truthful. _

Danielle raised her eyebrows. To Regan, the other woman's disapproval was a clear as if she'd just come out and said _How could you let him go off on his own? _"I figured – he made it clear he didn't want to talk to me," Regan added defensively.

"I think we're all agreed that whatever's going on here, Jack's not making the best decisions," Sally said, and Regan heard criticism in her tone. She bit her lip and stayed silent. _They're right. I shouldn't have let my own feelings get in the way – should have dived through the doors into the lift, should have run downstairs instead of walked, should have … _All of those choices seemed easy now, in retrospect, without the knot of shock freezing her gut, without her sense of betrayal hazing her vision and clouding her decisions. At the time, she'd had excuses: she had to arrange for security to get her personal belongings, she had to get the defense attorney's copy of the complaint and the paperwork … convenient tasks that meant she didn't have time to chase after McCoy, even when, waiting for security, she'd seen Colleen going past her to the lift with McCoy's coat and known he was waiting in the lobby.

"You're going to have to _make_ Jack talk to you," Sally said, "Before Monday. And believe me, I know how much I'm asking. He's got to tell you what happened, and you've got to get him to plead not guilty."

"Nobody gets Jack McCoy to do anything he doesn't want to do," Regan said. "And I don't know _why_ – I don't know why he's so set on a guilty plea."

"Have you considered that he might _be_ guilty?" Nora asked.

"There's no way," Regan said instantly. "And I can't believe you'd even _suggest _– "

"All right," Nora said. "Calm down."

Regan realized she was on her feet, fists clenched. "I'm sorry," she said, sinking back into her chair. "I know – you have to consider all the options. _I_ have to consider all the options. But there's no way this stacks up."

Nora gave what Regan felt was only a noncommittal nod. _And you call yourself his friends_, she fumed to herself. _One of you wondering if he's guilty, two acting as if the only thing to do is to destroy the prosecution witness like every low-rent domestic case – _she was as angry with them as she was with Jack McCoy. She managed to keep her mouth shut and her eyes on the papers in front of her as the four other women tossed ideas back and forth, debated discovery, proposed motions _in limine_, until Serena's voice interrupted her silent fuming.

"Tell us again what happened at the bar, Regan," Serena said.

"We got a cab with Bill Fitzgerald," Regan started. She told them the whole thing again – the piano, the singing, McCoy at the booth with Keri … When she finished Danielle looked up from the notes she was making.

"How many drinks did he have at the office?' she asked Regan.

"None," Regan said.

"None that you saw," Danielle noted.

"Well, yes, but we were going through files from late afternoon. He wasn't drinking," Regan said.

"How many drinks did he have at the bar?"

"I'm not sure," Regan said. "I saw him go to the bar once. I saw Keri Dyson hand him a drink at one point, and I saw her make another trip to the bar later. Three, I'd say, at least. What's that got to do with anything?"

"Start thinking like a trial lawyer," Danielle said. "If _Jack_ had three, then Keri probably had three. That makes her drunker than him, when you take bodyweight and gender into consideration. That makes her a less than reliable witness."

"Yeah, but she wasn't drunker than him," Regan said. "When they were leaving, she was steady on her feet, but Jack looked – more than tipsy, I'd have said."

"Then he had a lot more than three drinks," Sally snorted, and Nora smiled.

"And there was nothing out of the ordinary?" Danielle pressed.

"Like what?" Regan asked.

"Like anything out of the ordinary," Danielle said sharply.

"You know Jack's reputation," Regan responded equally sharply. "There's apparently nothing out of the ordinary about him going home with company, co-workers or not."

Serena shook her head. "He's usually _discreet_ about it," she said. "You said he and Ms Dyson were behaving like teenagers. That's not like Jack."

"Well, I'm sorry," Regan said heatedly. "I'm sure that if you or Abbie had been there you would have seen the future and stopped him leaving. But you weren't, okay? _I_ was. And I may not know him as well as you or do as good a job looking out for him as you did but will you give me a fucking break, I'm only human!"

A silence followed her outburst.

"Are you angry with us, Regan?" Nora asked. "Or with Jack?"

Regan shook her head wordlessly, realizing the answer only as the question was asked. She clenched her fist, feeling the sting as she re-opened the graze on her knuckle, and resisted the urge to smash her hand against the table – _as if I could even come __**close**__ to enough pain to be fair penalty._

"Regan?" Nora asked again.

"Neither," Regan whispered, leaning forward with her arms propped on the papers in front of her. She swallowed hard. "I knew there was something off. When. At the bar. I _felt_ it – I don't know what. And I should have stepped in. And I _would_ have. But – " she fell silent. _Romance and partnership never work,_ she thought. _I thought I learnt that lesson. _

"But you and Jack are involved," Danielle prompted.

"No," Regan said quickly. "No. Mr. Branch made it clear that was a career limiting move." _And I thought that gave me an escape – I thought so long as I kept things professional between us, it wouldn't matter – wouldn't matter that I didn't __**feel**__ professional._

_Wrong._

_So very, very wrong._

"But – " Regan hesitated, and then took a deep breath and forced the words out in a rush. "I figured I was just jealous of her, of Keri. That I was being a dog-in-the-manger. And I let it – I talked myself out of my own instincts. And that's how all this happened. It happened because I _let_ it happen. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. No wonder Jack won't talk to me – a partner's supposed to watch your back, not let you down – "

"So we have a client who wants to _plead_ guilty and a lead counsel who thinks she _is _guilty," Sally said dryly. "Anyone else? Nora? Anything to get off your chest?"

"If it turns out that this Ms Dyson was hired on my watch," Nora said, "I'll take my turn with the hair shirt."

They all laughed, even Regan. Her eyes teared a little and she blinked surreptitiously, then pulled the papers in front of her a little closer.

"I'll draw up a list of everybody in the bar," she said. "We'll need statements from all of them – if only to know what they might tell a court if the defense calls them."

"You mean the prosecution," Sally corrected gently, and when Regan stared blankly at her, "You mean, if only to know what they might tell a court if the _prosecution _calls them. _We're_ the defense. The prosecutors are the bad guys."

"Right," Regan said, trying not to show that it bothered her. "The prosecutors are the bad guys. And speaking of – latest from One Hogan Place is that Mr. Branch tapped one Michael Cutter from Narcotics to take lead on this. We need to know what he's like – his record, his work, does he deal, does he bluff?"

"I can do that," Serena volunteered. "I can run the searches from my home office, get you a summary by tomorrow night."

"Okay," Regan said. She looked at the case file in front of her, mentally allocating the tasks that remained.

"Yours is still the hardest job, Regan," Nora reminded her. "You have to talk to Jack. As soon as possible."

"Tomorrow morning," Regan promised. "Nine A.M."

"You've got to talk him around," Danielle said. "Don't take no for an answer."

"I understand," Regan said. "I understand how important it is. But have _any_ of you managed to get Jack to change his mind on something?"

Silence was the only reply she got.

* * *

.oOo.

* * *

A/N: I have been asked what's meant by 'dog in the manger'. It refers to an Aesop's fable about a dog sleeping on the hay in a manger, growling and barking at the cows and horses who try to eat the hay. It refers to someone begrudging another person having something they themselves don't want.

Please review! Reviews are the only payment fanfic writers get!


	7. Suitable Punishment

A/N: Continuing thanks to RebeccaInley for her continuing beta, and thanks to all the reviewers.

* * *

**Suitable Punishment**

* * *

_Apartment of EADA Jack McCoy_

_9 pm Friday May 4__th __2007_

* * *

It wasn't until the phone began to ring for the fifth time in an hour and he reached for the cord to yank it out of the wall that McCoy realized the sun had set and he had been sitting in the dark.

He let his hand drop. The phone rang on. _Should answer that_, he thought. _Or take it off the hook. Should turn on the light. Should order food. _

He did none of those things.

The phone rang itself to silence and the machine picked up.

"Jack, it's Regan again."

_Of course it is._

"I'm going to stop calling you, since obviously if you were going to talk to me you'd turn your cell on or answer your phone." Her voice was brusque and businesslike. McCoy couldn't tell if it concealed anything – perhaps the hurt she had every right to feel at the way he'd manipulated her and then shut her out. _Perhaps the disgust she has every right to feel at what I've done. _None of it showed in her voice. "I'll see you at Abbie's tomorrow morning at nine." She paused, and her voice softened as she added: "Try to get some sleep."

Dial tone. Silence.

_Try to get some sleep. _

_Fat chance._

His mind was racing, racing but going nowhere except over and over the same barren ground. _How could I ? After all time times I swore I would never turn into him – how could I? _

The only distraction from the self-recriminations beating over and over in his head was the occasional horrifying glimpse of the future – _arraignment. Sentencing. Jail. _

_Adam. Jamie. Abbie._

Imagination showed him their shocked and disappointed faces, theirs and more.

_Danielle. _

_Oh, god, Lisbeth._

The thought of his sister's reaction was more than he could bear and he launched himself to his feet. _Turn on the light. Take the phone off the hook. Do something. Do anything. _

He hit the switch and the sudden glare made him squint. Turning to look for the phone, his eye was caught by the photo on the wall. Forgetting the phone, he crossed the room and gazed at the beautiful young woman laughing at the camera, her dark hair stirred by the breeze.

_Th__ank god __**you'll**__ never kno_w, he thought, and then realized he had just been grateful Claire was dead because it spared him humiliation.

Grief and horror and sickening self-loathing combined to send a stab of pain through him so sharp he wavered on his feet. He steadied himself against the wall, and then took Claire's photo down. She was laughing, as she would always be laughing, but he imagined he could see sadness in her eyes. _She always had a way of letting me know when I feel short of her expectations_, he thought, running his fingers over the glass. _Usually with those big eyes silently accusing me every time I looked at her._

He laid the picture face down on the nearest bookshelf and yanked the phone cord out at the wall.

The movement sent another stab of pain through his head, and this time he recognized it as the familiar, one-sided pain of migraine. _Perfect end to a perfect day_, he thought sourly, heading for the bathroom to find his pills.

Shaking one into his palm, he paused, studying the pill, and then his reflection in the mirror.

McCoy knew that family photographs showed only a slight resemblance to his father_. But in every way that matters_ _Keri Dyson saw a perfect replica of the old man last night. _

_A McCoy fist, coming right at the face._

His head throbbed. McCoy wondered if a migraine hurt as much as a cracked cheekbone, if different pains could be quantified and compared. _Add an extra toll for the terror and the humiliation_, he thought. _For the senseless fear that lingers afterwards, once you've been taught that no-where's safe. _

He looked again at the pill, and tilted his hand to let it fall into the basin and roll down the drain. The bottle was almost full – he'd refilled the prescription only weeks earlier – and after a moment's consideration McCoy popped the cap and tipped the rest of the pills into the toilet. He knew what was coming far too well to think that his resolve would hold once the pain really started.

The sound of the flush grated on his nerves. _Sensitivity to sound_, McCoy thought, _number two on my personal list of reliable symptoms. _

On cue, a trail of sparks began to work its way down the periphery of his vision and his gut clenched with nausea. As always, he fought against it, knowing that the battle was pointless, but knowing too that retching would drive the pain in his head up to intolerable levels.

He leaned over the basin, staring at the white porcelain in preference to looking at what he'd see in the mirror.

_This'll get worse before it gets better._

_No question. _

* * *

...

* * *

When McCoy heard the bell shrilling through the apartment, the noise drilling into his head like a white-hot jackhammer, he had been lying on the bathroom floor for some time.

How long, he didn't know, didn't care. It hadn't taken long for the migraine to drive him to his knees, waves of nausea leaving him hanging over the toilet bowl. Some time after that, he had been unable to keep holding himself even nominally upright against the mounting pain, and so he'd curled up on the floor to ride it out.

Now he was so far down in the black agony of his migraine that the possibility of 'riding it out' was a thought he could no longer made sense of. There was neither a future nor a past to this single extended moment of pain that had hollowed him out, excavating memory and emotion, rendering him nothing more than a vessel for a pain so intense he would have considered it unendurable except, inexplicably, he continued to endure.

The bell went on and on. McCoy managed to put together the complex thought that the noise wouldn't be as loud if he covered his ears.

Trying to move brought shark shocks of pain like axe-blows to the side of his head and he retched. The spasms made the pain worse. By the time they'd passed and he lay limply on the cool tiles again, the bell had stopped.

_Thank god,_ he thought.

Another sound, this time inside the apartment, made him flinch again. It took him a moment to separate the sound itself from the pain it caused him, and only when he heard it again did he realize what it was.

"Jack?" Regan Markham called.

McCoy knew that somewhere on the other side of the pain there were reasons he didn't want her there, reasons he didn't want to see her, but all of those reasons seemed to have burned up in the fire that blazed inside his skull. Although every sound seemed more painful than the last, McCoy inexplicably found he wanted to hear Regan speak again.

He gathered himself, and managed to make a noise.

He could hear her in the hall, footsteps staggeringly loud to him even on the carpet. Then, suddenly, the room was filled with light, blinding, searing through his closed eyelids, burning into his brain like acid. He tried to turn his head away, but couldn't manage it through the pain.

Regan let out her breath with a sharp sigh. "Of all the goddamn times to go on a bender," she said exasperatedly. "Goddamn, Jack!" She nudged his leg with her foot. "Come on. Time to sober up."

McCoy couldn't find words past the pain in his head to correct her assumption. He felt her hand on his arm and realized she was about to try and haul him up. Even the thought of moving made his stomach heave. He coughed bile and tried not to pass out as the sound echoed agonizingly inside his skull.

"Jack?" Regan said softly. She let go of his arm. He heard a rustle of clothing and then her voice was much nearer. "Jack?" Regan's fingers brushed his face, pressed against the pulse in his neck.

Her touch felt like sandpaper on sunburn, but McCoy found it gave him enough strength to speak.

"Light," he managed to mumble. "Off."

"Is it a migraine?" Regan asked. "Where are your pills?"

That was too complicated for McCoy to even try to answer. "Light," he whispered again. "Off. _Please._"

"Okay," Regan said softly. "Hang in there. I'm going to get you some help."

Blessedly, the light went off.

Regan left him. McCoy couldn't summon the presence of mind to protest, but as he lay on the floor in the dark he could hear her somewhere in the apartment, and for the first time in hours he could imagine a future, a future in which Regan would come back into the room, in which he'd feel her hand and hear her voice.

He waited.

When she came back she didn't touch the light switch. McCoy heard her moving cautiously, then her hand found his shoulder and she knelt down beside him.

"Dr Margolis is coming," she murmured softly. "He'll be here soon."

McCoy managed to make a noise of assent to let her know he understood and Regan hushed him, her fingers running lightly over his hair. Her other hand traced his arm and then her fingers rested lightly over his. Moving his hand took an effort of concentration and determination that McCoy wasn't sure he had until he had done it, turning his hand over beneath hers so he could grasp her fingers. Regan squeezed his hand gently.

"I'm here," she whispered in the dark.

McCoy tightened his grip on her hand, as if it could haul him out of the pain and back to life. There was nothing in the world but the cold tiles beneath his face, the pain, and Regan's hand in his. She was an anchor against the black tide of pain trying to sweep him away and he hung on to her as tightly as he could. Her hand was broad and strong for a woman and although he closed his fingers around hers crushingly hard she made only one soft sound and then sat quietly, waiting with him in the dark, beside him in the isolation of his pain.

When she moved to free her hand from his he murmured a protest.

"I'll come right back," Regan assured him.

"Stay," McCoy whispered.

"I have to let the doctor in," Regan said, gently but firmly prizing her fingers free. "I'll be right back, Jack. I'm just going into the hall for a moment."

He let her go, sliding away into the pain and the dark. When he heard her voice again it was paired with another, the familiar voice of Dr Margolis.

McCoy felt the sting of a needle, and then, miraculously, a lessening of pain.

"Can you hear me, Jack?" Margolis asked.

"Yes," McCoy said. His voice was hoarse with disuse. He opened his eyes and began to push himself up to a sitting position. Margolis took his arm and helped him. Beyond Margolis, McCoy could see Regan standing in the bathroom doorway. McCoy leaned against the side of the bath and closed his eyes again as the doctor took his pulse.

"Excuse me, doctor," Regan said, and McCoy opened his eyes as Margolis leaned aside to let Regan past him.

She was holding a glass of water and McCoy realized how thirsty he was. Gratefully, he drank, the slightly metallic tap water the sweetest refreshment he could ever remember. Regan dampened a washcloth at the sink and knelt beside him to wipe his face.

"Thank you," McCoy said as she finished. Wordlessly, she touched his shoulder gently.

"Jack," Margolis said, "You need to be lying down. Can you stand up?"

"Sure," McCoy said, although he wasn't entirely certain. The pain had receded but he felt drained and weak, his limbs rubbery and his head light.

"Here you go," Regan said, moving closer to him and drawing his arm over her shoulder. With her help, McCoy made it to his feet. Regan put her arms around his waist and braced him. Together, they shuffled across the hall to the bedroom. The movement made McCoy dizzy and Regan's arms tightened around him as he swayed a little. "Lean on me, Jack," she said softly. "I've gotcha. Lean on me."

He was surprised at her strength as she helped him to the bed and lowered him down. The soft and yielding bed beneath him made McCoy aware of how tired he was. He found his eyes closing as Regan knelt down to take off his shoes. He felt her fingers deft and nimble, on the laces and then her hand on his shoulder urging him to lie down.

His head touched the pillow and he was out.

* * *

….…………..

* * *

For a moment when he woke, McCoy didn't know where he was or what had woken him. He opened his eyes, wincing as the movement woke the memory of pain.

He was in his own bed, the room almost in darkness, lit only by a ray of light coming through the half-open door to the hall. Regan Markham had brought a chair from the dining room and positioned it so the crack of light fell on the papers in her lap. She was not reading, though: her eyes were closed, and as he watched a sheet of paper slipped from her fingers and fluttered to the floor, joining another already there. The soft susurration made McCoy realize that what had woken him was the sound of the first page falling. How long he'd been sleeping, he didn't know.

He remembered not wanting to see her, to talk to her, remembered shame and guilt and dread of what he'd see in her eyes, but the emotions were distant, leached of their charge by intervening hours of pain the way hot summer sunlight drained colour from the towels and cushions of the holiday-makers on the Jersey shore.

For a moment he watched Regan sleep, her back straight, head leaning back against the wall, exhaustion showing clearly on her face even in the low light

Another page escaped her slack fingers and whispered its way to the ground.

"Regan," McCoy said softly.

Her eyes opened instantly. "Jack," she said. "How do you feel?"

"I've felt better," he admitted. Regan frowned, and he added quickly, "And worse."

She set her papers aside and came to kneel beside him. "The doctor said you could have a pill if you needed one," she said.

"No," McCoy said.

"Don't be a martyr," Regan said.

"No, I mean, I don't need one," McCoy said. He started to raise himself on one elbow but settled for rolling over on to his back. "What time is it?"

Regan looked at her watch. "Ten," she said. "At night. You've been asleep twelve hours. That was some shot the doctor gave you."

"It was some headache," McCoy said. "You called him?"

"Yeah," Regan said. "You didn't turn up at Abbie's this morning. And I – still had your keys. Lucky for you."

McCoy hesitated, then: "Thanks."

"You owe me," Regan said matter-of-factly. "For yesterday, too. And I'll collect, Jack. I want you to cooperate with me on these charges. No more bullshit. Okay?"

It all seemed very far away, as if it had happened to someone else, and so McCoy nodded. "Okay."

"In the morning," Regan said. "I've got to – " A yaw-cracking yawn interrupted her. "I've got to get some sleep myself," she finished, getting to her feet.

"Don't go," McCoy said without thinking, then covered: "You look too tired to go anywhere. Get some sleep here."

"You need to _rest_," Regan said.

"That's not – " McCoy said sharply, and then more softly: "I'd like it if you'd stay." When Regan still hesitated, he realized what was going through her head. "You're scared of what I might do, aren't you?"

"Don't be an idiot," Regan said impatiently. "Of course not."

"Then stay."

Regan looked at him for a moment, and then slipped off her shoes and walked around to the other side of the bed. She lay down on her side, facing him, head pillowed on one hand, curled up primly.

For a few moments neither of them spoke. McCoy was slipping back into sleep when Regan said:

"Did you tip your pills down the drain?"

"It seemed appropriate," McCoy said. "How did you – ?"

"Date on the empty bottle," she said. "You going to do anything that stupid again?"

"No," McCoy said, and meant it.

"Okay, then," Regan said. "Because I'll kick your ass from here to Jericho if you do, you hear?"

"Jericho on Long Island?" McCoy asked. "Or Jericho up-state?"

"Could be Jericho in _Palestine_," Regan murmured, eyes closing. "Depends how pissed I am."

McCoy fell asleep smiling.

* * *

.oOo.

* * *

A/N: Please review!


	8. Sunday Grace

A/N: Thanks again to RebeccaInley, who is both tactful and merciless (an excellent combination in a beta!) Thanks for all the reviews and feedback – don't be shy, send more! And don't forget, the poll is still open on my profile page.

* * *

**Sunday Grace**

* * *

Regan dragged herself reluctantly from sleep. She had the feeling that something large and horrible was waiting for her in the waking world, and all-in-all it seemed to be much more sensible to stay comfortably inside the dream she was having.

The dream was about Robbie, and for once it was a dream about the time in her life before everything changed. The time in her life when she would wake every morning with her head pillowed on Robbie's shoulder, his arm lying heavily across her shoulders.

It didn't seem quite right somehow: the arm around her, the body against hers, felt as if they belonged to someone rangier than Robbie's high-school football-star physique.

It was far too real a dream to be about anyone other than Robbie, though. Regan had slept beside him more nights of her adult life than not, and for a long time after they'd ended as a couple Regan had been able to conjure the memory of his arms around her, almost as real as this dream. She wondered why her subconscious had brought back the memory so vividly, and why it was getting the details wrong. _Robbie used to sleep on the other side_. … And Regan had inevitably woken with a crick in her neck, caused by Robbie's incurable habit of shifting her sideways when his arm around her shoulders began to go to sleep.

She had no crick in her neck. She felt as peaceful and comfortable as if she'd slept the night on a fine feather bed. Sighing, she shifted a little closer to the warm body beside her, and the arm that lightly encircled her shoulders tightened a little in response. _Stay asleep a while longer_, she told herself. _Enjoy the dream while it lasts._

_I deserve it. _The past few days had been some of the worst in her life. _Worse than getting shot – at least, worse than getting shot the first time._

Yesterday morning, after a mostly sleepless night she'd been up and dressed and braced to take Jack on and make him see reason by seven Saturday morning. Two hours of reviewing her notes from the previous night's meeting of the 'Jack McCoy Defence League', as Danielle Melnick had dubbed them, had not improved her mood. When nine o'clock had come and gone, she'd assumed McCoy had blown off the meeting. Calls to his cell phone got only voice-mail – calls to the landline had rung out.

She'd been pissed.

Not fuming, raging with the misdirected anger and guilt that had clouded her thinking the night before. No, just ordinary, _What-the-fuck-is-he-playing-at?_ pissed. _What-kind-of-9-o'clock-does-he-call-this_? pissed.

_Now he's going to just ignore me? _she'd thought. _We'll see about that!_

When she'd found McCoy stretched out on the floor of the darkened bathroom, her first thought had been _Of __**course**__ he chose last night to go on a bender_. Flicking on the light, she'd seen him flinch, and sighed to herself. _It's a bad hangover when the sound of a light-switch is too much_. Regan herself had spent a few nights lying on the bathroom floor – _which combines comfortingly cool tiles with convenient distance to the toilet_ – but she had always managed to haul herself to her hands and knees to throw up, a complex task she could see McCoy had failed to manage at least once.

She'd started to rouse him, preparing to haul him into the shower and begin the process of sobering him up, until something nagging at her subconscious had forced its way to the front of her mind.

Drunk enough to end up passed out on the bathroom floor, McCoy should have reeked of sour alcohol, but there was no tang of alcohol on the air. _Not drunk. _Annoyance vanished, banished by gut-clenching dread.

_Something's wrong. Something's really wrong_. _Call 9-11. No, see if he needs first aid right now first. _

She knelt down beside him.

"Jack?" she said softly, pressing two fingers to the side of his neck. His pulse was steady, what she could see of his face was pale. His skin was cold but his shirt was drenched with sweat. "Jack?"

He made a low noise, turning his face further away from her. "Light," he mumbled. "Off."

_Not drunk_. His pallor, the cold sweat, photosensitivity …

"Is it a migraine?" she asked. "Where are your pills?"

As the words had left her mouth, she'd spotted a pharmacy bottle on the edge of the vanity. _Empty. _

Waiting for Margolis, sitting beside McCoy in the dark, Regan had felt helpless. He was in pain; there was nothing she could do to help him. _That_ was sickeningly familiar. _Ellie, Ellie, help me, oh god, it hurts … _Just like there was nothing she could do to help him with the charges Keri Dyson had laid against him, nothing an inexperienced lawyer like herself could do. _There's never anything I can do._

She had sat on the floor in the dark and held his hand even when his grip painfully squeezed the knuckles she'd bruised against Abbie's bathroom wall. And when she'd heard Dr Margolis's knock and moved to answer it, McCoy's fingers had tightened around hers. _Stay_, he'd asked her.

So she had. She'd stayed through the day as he slept, watching over him, Margolis's words when she'd shown him the empty pill bottle echoing in her head. _I'm glad I'm not Catholic_, the rotund doctor had said exasperatedly, _Ex-alter boys always have a sentimental affection for hair-shirts and self flagellation. _

And she'd stayed the night, sleeping beside him.

And now it was morning.

The thought seemed to carry with it a peculiar sense of grace, as if the night passing over them was an achievement rather than an inevitability. It gave Regan the courage to leave her comforting dream, to wake up and face the day.

She opened her eyes.

The arm around her shoulders, the body against hers, didn't disappear. For a moment Regan thought she was still sleeping.

_No_.

She had been awake for quite some time. The heartbeat she could hear had never been a memory of Robbie; she had slept and woken listening to the sound of Jack McCoy's heart.

Careful not to wake him, she slipped free from his embrace and back to the other side of the bed. Curling up on her side, she rested her head on her hand and studied him. His face was the same asleep as awake, as if he had merely closed his eyes to think, mouth set firm in the determined line so familiar to her.

As she watched him he stirred, opened his eyes, and turned his head to meet her gaze.

For a moment neither of them spoke. Regan could hear her own heart beating, could hear him breathing, could hear the Sunday traffic from the street.

Then McCoy yawned, and raised his hand to scratch his head. The ring on his finger caught the light as he did, and Regan blinked.

"Show me your ring," she said.

McCoy frowned, puzzled, but extended his right hand. Regan studied the ring. _Solid_, she noted. _Thick edges. _

"The first crack," she said aloud. _First flaw in Keri Dyson's story. First inconsistency in the evidence. _

_First break in the case. _

"What?" McCoy asked. He pulled his hand back and looked at the ring himself, as if trying to work out why she was so interested.

"The bruise was on the left side of Keri's face, her left eye was black," Regan said.

His gaze clouded over and he dropped his hand to the bedspread. "So?"

"So that's a right-handed punch," Regan said, leaning up on her elbow. "And that ring – that'd leave a mark at least, maybe a cut. I'll have to check the medical report to be sure, but I didn't see anything like that on her face."

"So I used the other hand," McCoy said dully.

"No, because – " Regan paused, trying to phrase the thought, then gave up. "Look, make a fist. Make like you're going to hit me."

McCoy recoiled from the suggestion, staring at her in shock.

"Look," she explained, scooting closer to him and taking his left hand in hers. "If you hit me with your left, the bruise would be on my _right_." She brought his hand to her face in illustration, his knuckles brushing her cheekbone.

He jerked his hand free from hers and shrugged. "She was turning her head," he said. "Or I took the ring off."

Regan shook her head. "If she was turning away the blow would have hit her closer to the nose. That shiner she had was a classic pop to the cheekbone. And she said in her statement that she never got any further in than the hall."

"What does that prove?" McCoy said.

"You're wearing your ring _now_, Jack, it's not like you drop it on the hall table with your keys. And – " She took both his hands in hers, studying his knuckles. 'There's not a mark on you." She held up her own right hand, palm toward her, showing him the swollen knuckles. "If you landed those blows, your hand should look like this."

"What happened?" McCoy asked, taking her wrist to hold her hand still, studying the bruises and grazes. "Did you – " He paused, and Regan could see him trying to work out how to phrase it.

"Lose it again?" she said, helping him out. "Knock down a defendant? Or a witness?"

"Did anything happen that I need to know about?" McCoy asked, refusing her bait.

Regan looked at him a moment, seeing that he'd forgotten that he was a defendant, and her client, not the EADA and her boss. He was asking her what kind of trouble he might need to get her out of – _again_.

_And doing it as kindly as he can._

Her heart gave a little painful double beat.

"Regan?" McCoy prompted, an edge of impatience in his voice.

"I did my best to put my fist through the bathroom wall," Regan said. "I think I wanted to hit you, but you had wisely made yourself scarce." She tried to pull her hand free, but he held fast.

"Does it hurt much?" he asked, frowning.

She shrugged. "Nothing broken." She twisted her wrist free and laid her hand next to his. "See? No comparison. Take it from a brawler, Jack, you don't leave those kind of bruises without at least a bruised knuckle. No way you landed any punches Thursday night."

"I hit a woman, not a wall," he pointed out.

That was the first time he'd said it to her that baldly, and she guessed from the slight flinching around his eyes that it was the first time he'd said it out-loud to himself, either. Not _I'm going to plead guilty_, but _I hit a woman._

Regan took the opening. "What happened?" she asked him softly.

McCoy was silent for so long she thought he wasn't going to answer. "You've read her affidavit," he said at last, looking at the ceiling, not at her.

"I have and it's bullshit. What happened?" She stretched out her hand to touch his shoulder, then hesitated and let it drop.

Another pause. Then he turned his head and met her gaze, for once without the cynicism and irony that armored him against the world. Regan read guilt in his eyes, guilt and confusion.

"I can't remember," McCoy admitted quietly. "None of it. Nothing. Two drinks at the bar and then – blank."

"Three drinks," Regan corrected.

"No, two," McCoy said.

"You had three," Regan insisted.

"I'd remember three," McCoy said shortly.

"You just said you _don't_ remember," Regan pointed out.

"I must have – somewhere after the bar, I must have had more." McCoy shook his head a little. "I had the hangover to prove it the next morning. I've never in my life been so drunk as to lose where I was, what I did. But this time …"

"If you don't know what happened, why the hell do you keep telling me you're guilty?" Regan asked, not sure whether to be bewildered or angry.

"Her story stacks up." McCoy shook his head and closed his eyes for a second. "I can't see a way out of this. Her story stacks up."

"It doesn't even come _close_, Jack!" Regan said. "There's no way you'd do something like that."

"How do you know?" he asked.

"I smacked you right in the kisser and you didn't even raise your hand to me," Regan pointed out.

"I hadn't been drinking," McCoy said.

"If you were that kind of drunk I would have heard about it," Regan said.

"You'd think so," McCoy said. "You'd think that kind of thing can't stay a secret. But it can."

"No," Regan said, shaking her head. "No, it can't. It can be ignored, but it can't stay a secret. I'd have – "

"You don't know what you're talking about." McCoy's voice was so harsh it froze Regan to silence. "You don't have any idea what you're talking about."

He was glaring at her so angrily Regan had to take a steadying breath before she could respond. "I know you," she said. "And I know you didn't do this."

McCoy shook his head a little. "I don't believe that," he said softly.

"I know you don't," Regan said. "But I believe it enough for both of us. You can't see your way out of this? Then trust me to find one."

She reached across the little distance between them and took his hand. McCoy looked at her for a moment, his expression unreadable, and then down at her bruised hand clasping his. He shook his head. "I just want it _over_."

Regan changed tack. "You've made me part of this," she said. "You got me to file the complaint. You hired me to defend you. You just want it over? What's it going to be like for me when it is, huh?" His gaze flicked to her face and Regan tightened her hand around his. "You want to plead guilty, go directly to jail, and I'm the ADA who hung up her boss and let him get railroaded right to a cell. Thanks, Jack. I appreciate the career development."

He looked away from her. "It won't be like that."

"It will be _exactly_ like that," Regan said, refusing to give him an out. "You've put me in this. You _owe_ me the right to at least _try_ to salvage my reputation." He was silent, and she pushed it: "You owe me. You said so last night."

McCoy said nothing. Regan chose to take it as assent. "First thing we have to do is get your hands photographed," she said briskly, releasing his hand and scrambling out of bed. "I'll call Dr Rodgers. She can meet us at the M.E.'s Office and do it there. We can grab coffee and bagels on the way." She stopped at the doorway, hands on hips. "Come on, Jack. The day's not getting any younger."

She waited long enough to see him swing his legs out of bed and then went hunting for her cell to call Liz Rodgers.

She found it in her bag in the kitchen. Rodgers agreed to meet them – Regan couldn't tell if she was delighted or pissed, the M.E.'s voice always sounded exactly the same to her whatever the conversation. The call done, the sound of the shower told Regan that McCoy was at least out of bed. Regan checked her reflection in the side of his toaster, raked her fingers through her hair and sniffed her armpits. _I could use a shower, too_, she thought. _And clean clothes_. _A detour to Abbie's?_

_No. _She'd take advantage of McCoy's co-operative mood while it lasted. Regan suspected it had as much to do with low blood sugar and exhaustion than with any faith in the strength of her arguments, and she meant to push her advantage while she had it. When McCoy appeared in the kitchen doorway, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt and with his hair still damp, Regan jerked her thumb toward the front door of the apartment.

"Let's go," she said, then, "Wait. Your phone. It's unplugged."

McCoy shrugged.

"If Arthur is trying to call you to tell you he's had Keri Dyson arrested for perverting the course of justice, don't you want to know?" Regan asked exasperatedly. She dropped her bag in the hall and went hunting in the living room for the telephone.

Phone plugged in, she was turning back to the door when something caught her eye. For a second she couldn't work out what, then she realized – it was an _absence_ that had drawn her attention. There was a square of paint on the wall a slightly darker shade than the rest where a picture of a dark-haired girl had hung the last time she was here.

Almost immediately, she saw the framed photograph, face down on the nearest bookshelf. She picked it up, gazing down at Claire Kincaid, forever laughing and young. _An astonishing woman_, McCoy had said, _smart and idealistic_ …

And now face down where she couldn't see him, where he didn't have to look at her.

Regan touched the cold glass, wondering if she could see something else in Claire's smile, something that hadn't been there the last time she'd looked.

"Regan?" McCoy called impatiently from the hallway.

"Right there," Regan said hastily, putting the picture down as she'd found it and turning to the door.

As she steered McCoy out of the apartment, Claire Kincaid's face stuck in her mind, beautiful and happy and young. _And __**smart**__. A better lawyer than I'll ever be. _

_If she were here, I bet she'd tear the prosecution apart. _

_If she were here, this would never have happened. _

Maybe that was what she'd seen in the photo, the same question she'd seen on the faces of Serena, Danielle, Abbie, Sally … _How could you let this happen to him? _

As the elevator doors closed behind them and Regan felt her stomach lurch with the decent, she closed her eyes and saw Claire's reproachful face in her mind's eye.

_I'll do better_, she promised. _I'll look out for him._

_Best I can. _

* * *

.oOo.

* * *


	9. Medical Evidence

A/N: With thanks to RebeccaInley for fine work beta-ing, and to Lynn46for helpful comments.

Don't forget to check out the poll on my profile page and vote!

And if you like Jack McCoy fic, you might like the 'Hang 'Em High' Law and Order C2

**Medical Evidence**

* * *

_M.E.'s Office_

_Manhattan_

_12.30 pm Sunday May 6__th__ 2007_

* * *

As she left the M.E.'s Office, Regan automatically turned right to walk to the subway that would take her to One Hogan Place. She had taken three steps before she remembered that her after-hours access to the DA's Office had been revoked. She stood indecisively for a moment, wondering if she should go home to Abbie's and work there or head to the Hudson University law library, until the sharp blare of a horn startled her and she realized she was standing in the way of an ambulance trying to pull into the M.E.'s ambulance bay.

Regan stepped back, and then sank down on the low wall that ran along the edge of the ambulance bay and put her head in her hands.

Liz Rodgers had taken a series of forensically impeccable photographs of McCoy's hands, documenting the absence of grazes or bruises, but she had pointed out that the pictures would have had greater evidentiary value if they'd been taken on Friday. Regan had nodded glumly, accepting the implied criticism. Although she couldn't blame herself for losing the whole of Saturday to McCoy's migraine and its sequelae, it was inarguable that she had taken too long to shake herself free from shock and start thinking like the defense attorney McCoy needed her to be.

_I'm not much of a prosecutor. I'm probably the world's worst defense attorney. Danielle Melnick would never have missed seeing Jack's hands on Friday. _

Regan had another problem, not one of inexperience. _A problem Danielle and Sally Bell are probably very familiar with. _

Her client was lying to her.

_Must happen to them all the time. _

And it wasn't like Regan wasn't used to being lied to. Witnesses lied, defendants lied, sometimes the police lied.

_But I'm not used to being lied to by __**Jack.**_

She believed him when he said he didn't remember what had happened. Regan didn't understand why, even if he didn't know what had happened, he was so ready to believe Keri Dyson's allegations, but she had no doubt he was telling the truth.

_About __**that**__._

What she _couldn't_ understand was why he was adamantly sticking to the story that he only remembered having two drinks at the _Lord Roberts_. Regan herself had seen him have three. And if he and Keri had called in at another bar on the way home – or opened a bottle at his apartment – then yes, maybe he'd gotten so loaded he couldn't remember the rest of the night. But it was just plain ridiculous that two drinks would get Jack McCoy so drunk he couldn't remember a third.

_And that's how it's going to look in court_. Regan could just imagine the jury's faces as she tried to persuade them the reason the defense had no alternate theory of events because the defendant had been too blind drunk to remember what happened, but that the only witness should still not be regarded as credible. That was a big hurdle for any lawyer to clear. With a bar full of people able to testify that McCoy had had at least three drinks – contradicting his own account – she wouldn't dare put him on the stand, for fear his story of an alcohol-induced black-out would look phony.

She'd tried one more time to get him to tell her the truth on the way out of the M.E.'s building. _And that went well. _McCoy had flat-out insisted she was wrong, and when Regan had pressed him, he'd stormed off down the street.

Regan had thought twice about letting him go off on his own, but he seemed to be in better shape than he had been on Friday, and it was the middle of the day. _I'll give him an hour or so to cool off and then I'll hunt him down. _

_Doesn't solve the problem. _

She groaned aloud. _How am I supposed to defend him when he won't tell me the truth?_

"Regan?"

Regan looked up to see Casey Novak standing in front of her. "Casey," she said, and tried to smile. "Working Sunday?"

"Prepping Warner for testimony tomorrow," Casey said. She looked down at Regan, frowning a little, and then put her briefcase down on the wall and sat next to Regan. "Tough day?"

"Yeah," Regan said.

"Can I help?"

Regan shook her head. "You've heard about Jack?"

"Whole building's heard," Casey said.

"Well, that's what it is. It's the case. And I can't talk about it to you. You're an officer of the court. You wouldn't have protection if you were called to testify."

"But if it was hearsay, anything I could tell the court would be inadmissible," Casey said. "And _you_ have attorney-client privilege as a shield. So you don't need to worry about being forced to choose whether or not to perjure yourself."

"But if I breach confidentiality, then privilege no longer applies," Regan pointed out.

"Not if you're talking about a hypothetical situation," Casey said.

"Does that still cover us with the disciplinary committee?" Regan asked.

"Probably not," Casey said. She opened her briefcase and took out a paper-wrapped sandwich, and took a bite. "But the disciplinary committee is something to worry about _after_ you win the trial," she said with her mouthful. "Just so long as you don't give any grounds for appeal."

Regan looked sideways at her. "Do you lie awake at night thinking up loopholes?"

Casey laughed. "The rules of evidence can keep justice in a cage sometimes. Occasionally you have to – " she gestured as if pulling something apart "– _squeeze_ them open a little to let her through." She took another bite of her sandwich. "What's on your mind?"

Regan chose her words carefully. "Hypothetically. A lawyer has a client – let's call him Jack, just hypothetically – who has been charged with assault. And this hypothetical lawyer has been told by her hypothetical client that on the night in question, he was so drunk he couldn't remember anything. He said that normally that never happens. That he must have been drunker than ever in his life. That when he woke up he had the hangover to prove it."

Casey chewed and swallowed. "So?"

"So he says – this hypothetical client says – he remembers having two drinks at the bar, and then he doesn't remember anything else."

"Two drinks wouldn't make Jack McCoy drunk," Casey said. She took another bite. "Was he drinking beforehand?"

"He says no. And – Casey, I _saw_ him –"

Casey held up her hand. "I think you mean to say, this _hypothetical lawyer_ saw him. Actually, maybe the hypothetical lawyer was told by somebody who saw him."

"Right. Anyway, according to what somebody told this lawyer –" Regan paused, trying to keep track of the degrees of separation. "He had at least three drinks in the bar. And he'd remember a third drink, right? I mean – he's not a lightweight."

"Two drinks, no recollection of what happened next?" Casey said. She finished her sandwich and stood up. "Come on."

Regan got to her feet. "Where are we going?"

"Back inside. You need to talk to somebody."

Regan followed Casey back into the M.E.'s Office and down the long, dimly lit corridors. Casey knocked on the door of an examination room and opened it without waiting for an answer.

Regan knew Melinda Warner by sight, although they'd never been introduced. The doctor didn't offer to shake hands when Casey performed the introductions and Regan wondered if the other woman was used to people being reluctant to clasp the fingers of someone who dug around inside dead people for a living.

"Melinda," Casey said. "Someone has a few drinks in a bar, can't remember anything past the first two, woke up the next morning with no idea what happened the night before."

Warner looked at Regan, frowning slightly. "I can draw some blood for a tox screen," she said. "It's best done as soon a possible. Roll up your sleeve."

"A tox screen?" Regan asked. "Hang on. First off, it's not me. Casey's not talking about me. It's – a friend of mine."

"Then your friend needs to go to the E.R. She needs a tox screen and, I'm sorry to have to tell you, she should have an S.A.E. as well." Warner rested her hands on the stainless steel table. "Casey can arrange for the SVU detectives to meet her there, so she can make a report. Did it happen last night?"

"No – last week – an S.A.E.?"

"A Sexual Assault Examination," Warner explained gently.

"I know – I know what an SAE is," Regan said impatiently. "I'm asking – why?"

"You've just described the classic symptoms of GHB," Melinda Warner said. "Gamma-Hydroxybutyric acid. It's a date rape drug. It causes a sense of well-being and relaxation, similar to alcoholic intoxication, followed by enhanced libido, reduced inhibition, and then drowsiness. It also causes memory lapses, amnesia. The next day, it's like a bad hangover – nausea, headache, irritability."

"Holy – " Regan whispered. "And there's a test for it?"

"It clears out of the body pretty quickly. Sometimes even the next morning is too late," Warner said. "If it happened last week then I'm afraid your friend has probably left it too late for a successful prosecution. She should make a complaint anyway, though. Whoever drugged her could very well be a serial offender – and they often target the same bars and nightclubs. SVU builds profiles of these kinds of attackers. Your friend could help them get this guy, even if they can't arrest him for what he did to her."

Regan looked from the doctor's sympathetic gaze to Casey. "Thanks, Casey," she said. "I'm going to ask you to step out now and give me a few moments with Dr Warner."

"I thought you might," Casey said. "I've got to get back to the office, anyway. Good luck, Regan. There's a lot of us pulling for you."

When the door had closed behind the SVU prosecutor , Regan put her briefcase down on the examination table and clicked open the locks. "Dr Warner, Casey and I haven't been entirely honest with you. This didn't just happen to a friend of mine. It happened to a client."

Warner took a step backwards and folded her arms. "According to the rumor mill, you only have one client," she said.

"For once, the rumor mill is right," Regan said. She took the file of Keri Dyson's compliant from her briefcase.

Warner held up her hands. "Before you say anything or show me anything, you need to know I'm not some professional 'expert witness' for hire by the defense."

"I won't call you to the stand," Regan said. "I just want your opinion."

"_You_ might not call me," Warner said. "But you signed in here today. If whoever's prosecuting this case checks those logs then they'll ask everyone in the building who you saw. And if the prosecution puts me on the stand, I'll tell the truth."

Regan paused. "I understand that," she said. "But Jack's innocent. So there's no way the truth can hurt him."

Warner rested her hands on the table and leaned forward a little, gaze steady on Regan's face. "I've spent most of my career finding ways to prove that women aren't lying when they accuse men of attacking them," she said. "Whatever the stereotype about the vindictive, lying bitch. And every court case comes complete with the wife or girlfriend or sister saying 'He's innocent, he'd never do this'."

"I know," Regan said. "I'm not asking for your blind faith. I'm asking for your scientific opinion."

"You've got enough blind faith for the both of us?" Warner said dryly.

"Not blind," Regan said.

Warner shook her head, silently disagreeing, but she didn't protest again when Regan laid the file down on the examination table and flipped it open. "Doctor," she said, "Can this drug – GHB – does it make people aggressive?"

"No," Warner said decisively. "Affectionate, drowsy – not aggressive." She made no move to reach for the file. "An intoxication defense won't fly."

"Okay," Regan said. "What's your opinion of these injuries?"

Finally, reluctantly, Warner picked up the file. She tilted the photographs toward the light and scrutinized them for a moment. "At least three separate blows," she said at last, voice coolly professional. "Two to the eye area and one to the mouth. From the location of the bruises I infer the assailant was right-handed. I can see some bruising to the throat consistent with the victim having been restrained with the left hand around her neck. Does that paint a clear enough picture for you?"

"Pretty clear," Regan said. "Dr Warner, was whoever hit her wearing a ring?"

"Possibly on the left hand," Warner said. "But I doubt on the right. Even a small ring would leave an imprint, probably a cut, with blows of this force." She studied the photographs a moment longer and then put them down and picked up the doctor's report from Mercy E.R. "He hit her hard enough to fracture her eye socket, according to the E.R. doctor."

"He?" Regan said.

"It's not impossible for a woman to hit this hard," Warner said. "But I would rank it as extremely unlikely."

"If I told you that Jack McCoy wears a ring on his right hand, would you consider it likely that he'd inflicted these injuries?" Regan asked.

"I couldn't offer a professional opinion in court based on photographs," Warner said. She scanned the doctor's report again. "The attending doctor didn't record any cuts or grazes, but that doesn't mean they might not have been there." She paused. "Now _there's _a blast from the past. Rob Jordan treated Ms Dyson. I haven't seen him since he went down to Baltimore. I didn't even know he was back in the city."

"He's a friend?" Regan asked.

"We went to medical school together," Warner said.

"Good enough friend to give him a call?" Regan suggested.

"Now, hold on," Warner said, putting the file down with a snap. "There's _no_ friend who's a good enough friend to ask to breach doctor-patient confidentiality."

"No, no, no!" Regan said quickly. "Not confidentiality. The report is in evidence. Dyson's _waived_ her confidentiality. I can subpoena the doctor and he'll have to testify, at least about the report. I just want to know – will he talk to me, if I go see him?"

Warner hesitated again. "Well, all right," she said. "I can't see that doing any harm."

Regan waited while Warner dialed a number and spoke to the desk clerk at Mercy. Sooner than Regan expected, Warner hung up, and she was frowning.

"He's not there," Warner said.

"Different shift?" Regan asked.

"No," Warner said. "He doesn't work there." She shook her head, looking puzzled. "Not even on the casual roster."

"Then what's his name doing on the report?" Regan asked. "Do you have a number for him in Baltimore?"

"Somewhere," Warner said, and shrugged. "Like I said, we haven't been in contact."

"Do you think you could dig it out and give him a call?" Regan asked. "And let me know?"

"Sure," Warner said. "I'd like to know what he's doing signing medical reports at a hospital where he doesn't work, myself."

Regan gathered her papers together and put them back in her briefcase. "Thanks for your help, Dr Warner," she said.

"Remember what I told you," Warner said. "I won't lie for you, not in court."

"I know," Regan said. "I won't need you to. I have an innocent client."

"You're not the first defense attorney to tell me that," Warner said.

"I could just be the first to be right, though," Regan said, holding the M.E.'s gaze.

After a moment, Warner gave the tiniest of nods.

As Regan headed back up the long corridor that led to the outside world, she felt irrationally exhilarated. Persuading Melinda Warner to admit at least the _possibility_ of McCoy's innocence meant more than just the M.E.'s help.

_If I can win her over, then maybe – just maybe – I can do the same with the twelve citizens in the jury box._

_Maybe._

For the first time, Regan began to think it was possible. For the first time, she felt like she had a fighting chance.

* * *

.oOo.

* * *


	10. Wrong Side Of The Aisle

A/N: With thanks to RebeccaInley for her hard work as a beta, and to Lynn46 for helpful feedback – and to both, for letting me badger them via email as I bat around ideas and sort out plot and structure.

* * *

**Wrong Side Of The Aisle**

* * *

_Arraignment Court_

_11 am Monday May 7__th__ 2007 _

* * *

Regan nearly turned left as she passed through the gate into the front of the courtroom. She hoped the slight stumble as she saw Connie Rubirosa standing at the prosecutor's lectern, and realized her mistake, wasn't too obvious.

She hoped as well that no-one could spot the nervous sweat beading her hairline and trickling between her shoulder-blades. _And that my hands don't shake when I need to handle documents and that my voice doesn't crack and that I don't throw up._

All of those catastrophes seemed entirely possible as Regan set her briefcase on the table provided for defense attorneys and turned to double check that McCoy had followed her and was standing in the spot assigned to defendants.

He had. Regan thought that he looked about as sick to his stomach as she was to hers. _Not nerves in his case_, she guessed. When it came to courtroom combat, Jack McCoy didn't have a nerve in his body. _If I feel out of place on this side of the aisle, how must he feel?_

"Docket ending number 2-7-4," the clerk read out. "People v John James McCoy, assault in the second degree."

A quick buzz of whispering went around the courtroom. Regan ignored it. _Don't blink, don't back down_, she remembered her Gran-Da telling her when she started on foot-patrol. _Never let them see you're frightened. _She straightened her shoulders and said in her best calm _I'm-a-police-officer-and-you-aren't-so-back-the-hell-up_ voice:"Your honor, Regan Markham. I represent the defendant."

"I know who you are, Ms Markham," Judge Antonia Mellon said, peering over the top of her glasses at first Regan, then McCoy. "And I take it from your presence that this is not the elaborate practical joke I first presumed?"

"There's nothing amusing about these charges, your honor," Connie Rubirosa said. "The victim suffered serious injuries to her face and head, and could have been killed or disabled by the assault."

"Injuries not caused by Mr. McCoy, your honor," Regan countered.

Judge Mellon cut them both off with a rap of the gavel. "Why does everybody think that trying their case in arraignment is the way to go? No, don't answer that, it was rhetorical. Mr. McCoy. Do you understand the charges against you?"

Regan glanced at McCoy, waiting for him to answer. His lips moved soundlessly, and then Regan saw his Adam's apple move convulsively as he swallowed hard, cleared his throat, and said firmly: "I do, your honor."

"And how do you plead?" the judge asked.

Regan held her breath. Over the past twenty-four hours she'd swung from being ninety percent certain McCoy would do as she asked and plead 'not guilty' to being seventy percent certain he'd play along with her right up to this point and then chose the hair-shirt Dr Margolis had referred to.

The previous evening's case conference had done nothing to set her mind at rest. _Partly my fault_. Regan had chickened out of telling McCoy in advance about the 'Jack McCoy Defense League'. He'd arrived at Abbie's expecting Regan, possibly Abbie as well – and the look on his face when he'd walked into the dining room to see Nora, Serena, Danielle and Sally sitting around the table had been a Kodak moment Regan didn't want to remember. Shock, then anger.

What had puzzled Regan was that for an instant before his brows had drawn together in a thunderous scowl, she had thought that the expression on Jack McCoy's face had been … horror.

_Surprise, anger – predicable. But he looked as if the five of us at that table was his worst nightmare._

Then the anger, and the shouting, and Regan had been treated to a quick historical insight into Jack McCoy and Sally Bell. The two of them leaning towards each other over the dining room table, McCoy propped on his clenched fists, Sally poking him sharply in the chest with her finger, both shouting … then Danielle had gotten in on the act, barely coming up to McCoy's shoulder even in her heels but not in the slightest bit afraid of him. With Sally shouting at him from across the table and Danielle waving her finger in his face, McCoy had spun on his heel and headed for the door. When Regan bolted after him, catching him up in the hallway, she'd had to grab his arm to stop him. He'd turned, glaring at her.

Regan hadn't let him get a word out of his mouth before she jabbed him hard in the chest with one finger. She'd had no idea what she was going to say or how she was going to say it until the words fell out of her mouth. _You owe me,_ hard as nails.

She'd gotten McCoy back into the room, where he sat at one end of the table, leaning back in his chair with his arms folded tight across his chest, the air of _I-don't-want-to-__**be**__-here_ radiating off him impossible to ignore. Even Regan's speculation about GHB hadn't broken his mood. McCoy had pointed out the lack of supporting evidence, and when Regan had gone over the absence of any marks on McCoy's hands or any ring imprint on Keri Dyson's face, McCoy had seemed almost to take enjoyment out of demolishing her argument, as clinically as he might have in court.

Finally, Serena Southerlyn had leaned forward, almost pleading with him, saying _but don't you see, Jack, you were framed, this is a set-up_.

McCoy's response had come in a tone so cutting the usually perfectly composed attorney had been forced to blink away tears. _The last argument of a desperate and incompetent lawyer, Serena – my client was framed. I see my judgment was correct when I let Arthur fire you._

That had been the end of the meeting.

"Mr. McCoy," Judge Mellon said, recalling Regan to the present. "How do you plead?"

"Not guilty, your honor," McCoy said in a monotone that to Regan's ears completely lacked conviction.

_At least it's on the record. _Regan blew out a silent breath of relief.

"Do the people want to be heard on bail?" Mellon asked.

"The charges are serious, carrying a prison sentence," Connie Rubirosa said.

"And will be vigorously defended," Regan countered promptly. "Mr. McCoy is not flight risk. He has been a prosecutor in Manhattan for more than twenty years. He's well-known, especially to New York's criminal classes. Remand pending trial would be inappropriate, and is unnecessary, given that Mr. McCoy's only priority is to clear his name of these false charges and return to his job. We ask for R.O.R, your honor."

"Ms Rubirosa?" Mellon asked.

"I have to ask for bail at one hundred thousand, your honor," Connie said.

Regan turned to look at her, aware out of the corner of her eye that Mellon was staring over her glasses at the prosecutor as well. _I __**have**__ to ask?_

"Excessive, your honor," Regan said.

"I agree," Mellon said. "Mr. McCoy has caused both the criminal classes and the judicial classes of New York a certain amount of heartburn over the years, but I would be hard pressed to name a citizen with a greater reputation of respect for legal process. Release on own recognizance ordered."

"Order for discovery, your honor?" Regan said promptly.

"So ordered." _Bang_! Went the gavel.

"Your honor, I'd like to be heard on the question of a speedy trial," McCoy said.

"_No you __**wouldn't**_," Regan hissed in a whisper.

McCoy ignored her. "_Barker v Wingo_, your honor, stipulates – "

"Mr. McCoy," Antonia Mellon said, staring at him incredulously. "This has to be the first time I've had a defendant try to argue for a speedy trial _at arraignment_."

"Determinations must be made on a case-by-case basis," McCoy said.

"Yes, I've read _Barker v Wingo_," Mellon snapped. "And you know very well a speedy trial motion is for the trial judge, not for me. I'll tell you what – I'll set it down for trial on Judge Wright's calendar, and you can argue this out before him. See his clerk for a chambers hearing, Ms Markham."

"Yes, your honor," Regan said numbly.

_Bang!_ went the gavel again. Regan turned to McCoy and grabbed his arm.

"What the _hell_ are you playing at?" she snapped.

McCoy turned as if he was going to answer her, and then froze, staring over her shoulder.

"Docket ending number 2-7-5," the clerk read out. "People v Keri Dyson, coercion in the second degree."

Regan turned to see Keri Dyson coming toward them, accompanied by a stout woman who looked far too old to be a practicing lawyer. The bruises had ripened on Keri's face, blossoming to purple, although her eye hadn't swollen nearly as much as Regan would have expected.

Keri saw McCoy and Regan and shrank back. "Don't let him near me!" she cried, clutching the older woman's arm in fear.

"Your honor, Lanie Stieglitz for the defense," the old lady said, her firm voice belying her apparent advanced age. "As my client is currently in the process of applying for a restraining order against Mr. McCoy, I ask that you have him removed from the courtroom."

_Thank god this isn't something the jury can see_, Regan thought. Keri stared at McCoy, lower lip trembling, as her lawyer put an arm protectively around her and glared at Regan and McCoy both, as if she expected to have to interpose her aging, fragile body between her client and McCoy's frenzied attack. And then – _if this is the show they put on at arraignment, what __**is**__ the jury going to see?_

The thought made her sick, and distracted her just enough for McCoy to lean past her.

"Lanie …" McCoy said quietly.

"I advise you not to enter into any inappropriate _ex parte_ communication with my client or myself, Mr. McCoy," Lanie Stieglitz said sternly. And then, hissed too quietly for any but McCoy and Regan to hear: "And you make me _sick_, Jack McCoy, when I think of all those fine self-righteous speeches about defending the helpless and prosecuting abusers."

Regan got her shoulder in between McCoy and the two women. "Let me caution you in turn, Ms Stie – Ms Stege – "

"Stieglitz," the lawyer said tightly.

Regan felt herself blush. "You client is a witness against mine," she went on, trying to regain a tone of authority, "Just as mine is against yours. I'd hate for there to be any concerns about interfering with prosecution witnesses raised at Ms Dyson's trial."

"If you've all quite finished," Judge Mellon interrupted from the bench. "Ms Markham, get your client out of here. Ms Stieglitz, save your theatrics for the jury. Ms Dyson, do you understand the charges against you?"

As Keri answered in a quavering voice that she did, Regan grabbed McCoy's arm and pulled him away, towing him up the aisle of the courtroom and out into the corridor.

"Okay," she said, steering him through the press of people to a window where the corner gave some privacy to those able to keep their voices down. "What the hell? Speedy trial?"

McCoy looked blankly at her. "Do you know Lanie Stieglitz?" he asked.

"No," Regan said shortly. "But I'm getting the feeling that before this is over, Lanie Stieglitz and I are going to develop a pretty intense relationship."

"She doesn't work much these days," McCoy said. "Just the cases that really interest her. She's always specialized in women's rights – defending battered women accused of murder, that sort of thing."

"Good for her," Regan said impatiently. "Now let's talk about Barker and fucking Wingo and what the hell you thought you were doing opening your mouth in there to say anything other than yes-your-honor-not-guilty."

"Lanie and I have never seen eye to eye on a lot of things," McCoy said, continuing to ignore her. "But we always respected each other's position. And I never felt that she – "

Regan's hand itched to slap him. _He's not going to jail_, she thought grimly, _because in about ten seconds I am going to throttle the life out of him right here in the courthouse hallway. _"Snap out of it, Jack!" she said sharply. "She's defending a client in a case where you're the sole witness for the prosecution! Stop letting her screw with your head!"

McCoy shook his head. "Lanie's never taken a case she doesn't agree with," he said. "Or a defendant she doesn't believe. That's her strength – and her weakness." He kept shaking his head. "She wouldn't take Keri as a client unless she was convinced that – that I – "

Regan laid her hand along the side of his face, stopping the repetitive motion. She could feel the pulse pounding in his neck. "Do not come unglued on me here, Jack," she ordered him very calmly. "Let's go home and talk about all of this there."

"You need to see Judge Wright's clerk," McCoy said. He covered her hand with his own, and Regan wasn't sure if there was a second's hesitation before he pulled her fingers away from his face. "Get a chambers hearing tomorrow on speedy trial. I can prep you for it tonight and – "

"I don't _want_ a speedy trial!" Regan said a little too loudly. She glanced around to make sure there were no ADA's in immediate earshot and then lowered her voice. "I need time to work the case, investigate Keri Dyson, investigate the evidence, I'm not _ready_."

"My case," McCoy said. "My rules. Or I can get myself a new lawyer and you can get yourself a new job."

* * *

.oOo.

* * *

A/N: I know that Lanie Stieglitz would probably not still be practicing in 2007, but on the other hand, the actress who played her, Elaine Stritch, is still working, so …


	11. Fair Hearing

A/N: Ongoing thanks to RebeccaInley for sterling work as a beta and Lynn46 for kicking around ideas.

**

* * *

**

**Fair Hearing**

* * *

_Judge William Wright's Chambers_

_8.30 am Tuesday May 8__th__ 2007 _

* * *

"Is this your idea, Ms Markham?" Judge Wright asked.

"It's my motion, your honor," Regan temporized. She blinked gritty eyes and wished she'd had another two or three hours of sleep. _On the upside, for the three days until I forget it all, I'll know more about speedy trial motions than the rest of the New York Bar Association put together._

Jack McCoy was an excellent and merciless tutor, and he was determined that Regan win this argument. He'd turned Abbie's dining room into his school-room, carting over boxes of books from his own apartment and grilling Regan on the intricacies of case law and legislation. He'd tried to rope Abbie in to play the part of the ADA opposing the motion , but she had flatly refused, telling him he was mad to press for trial before his lawyers had worked out a strategy and mad to think that keeping his attorney up until four in the morning was a good way to win _anything_.

_Didn't stop him._ McCoy had taken the parts of both the ADA _and_ the judge and quizzed Regan until she was ready to cry from frustration and sheer weariness. Seeing her eyes fill with tears, McCoy had inquired acidly if she thought crying at the judge was a winning strategy?

At which point Regan had done what she probably should have done hours before: told him to go fuck himself, and gone to bed.

Now her mind felt thick and gluey, her thought struggling to move in a head crammed full of fact and precedent.

_At least my client isn't here to stick another spanner in the works. _

Judge Wright chuckled at Regan's careful choice of words. "Smart clients who know the law are a pain in the ass, aren't they?"

"Far be it for me to disagree with your honor," Regan said smoothly. "However, leaving aside any judicial opinions on the nature and location of pains that clients can cause their lawyers, I am here to argue on behalf of my client that he has the right, under the constitution, further defined by _Barker v Wingo_, to a speedy trial, which in this case would be a trial in the first possible gap in your calendar, your honor."

"The People have no objection," Connie Rubirosa said. Regan turned to stare at her in mingled astonishment and horror. _First of all, since when did the D.A.'s Office want to be rushed into court? The longer we – __**they**__ – have to build a case the better it is for the prosecution. Secondly – _

_Secondly, I was counting on the D.A.'s Office resistance to save me from being rushed into court with nothing more than a handful of speculation just because my client seems to have the criminal defendant's version of a deathwish. _

"There are implications beyond this single trial at play here, your honor," Rubirosa went on. "The reputation of the D.A.'s Office – "

"The political future of the man sitting _in _the D.A.'s office," Judge Wright said shrewdly. "Your boss happy to get this off the front pages as quickly as possible, eh?"

"I'm sure I don't know what you might mean," Rubirosa said calmly.

Regan leaned closer to Rubirosa. "Connie, are you sure about this?" she asked, keeping her voice low so the judge wouldn't hear her.

"Are _you_?" Rubirosa returned.

"_I'm_ sure," Wright said, and chuckled at the two attorney's look of surprise. "For future reference in my courtroom, ladies – I can hear a pin drop on a carpeted floor, metaphorically at least. Well, let's see. We have a speedy trial motion from the defense, uncontested by the prosecution – must be a first." He turned a few pages of his diary. "Fortunately for you, Ms Markham – although perhaps I should say _unfortunately_, given the look on your face – your colleague Tracey Kibre just persuaded one of Manhattan's less upstanding citizens to take a plea. How does Thursday sound?"

Regan swallowed hard. "Better than any defense attorney could hope for, your honor."

The gaze he gave her was shrewd. "Ms Markham, if it weren't for the rules governing _ex parte_ communication, I might be tempted to give you some advice."

Regan managed to smile. "They do say it's the thought that counts, your honor."

"Given, however, that we do work within the boundaries set down by the Supreme Court, I will dispense some pearls of judicial wisdom to _both_ the defense and prosecution. Pay attention, ladies. I know that this case is not run-of-the-mill for either of you. However, this is _my_ courtroom, and I will not permit the identity of the defendant, the media interest, or anything else, hijack the criminal justice system. I have had the dubious pleasure of watching Jack McCoy tap-dance his way across very thin ice in my courtroom more than once – settle down, Ms Markham, I don't hold any grudges – and I have ever confidence that as a defendant he'll be just as prone to push the envelope. I won't have this trial turned into Jack McCoy's personal circus, or a media circus, or Mr. Arthur Branch's re-election platform. Am I completely clear?"

Regan nodded, and Rubirosa said: "Crystal, your honor."

As the two attorneys left Wright's chambers for the busy morning bustle of the courtroom corridors, Rubirosa touched Regan's arm. "You okay?" she asked. "You look a little – "

"I'm going to be sick!" Regan blurted, realizing it. She clapped her hand over her mouth and Rubirosa grabbed her elbow and steered her quickly across the corridor to the door marked 'Women'.

Regan made it to the basin before throwing up the toast and coffee she'd choked down before leaving Abbie's that morning.

Rubirosa waited a tactful moment before asking: "Are you alright?"

Regan nodded, not trusting her voice. She ran the tap and splashed water over her face. As she blinked her vision clear she saw Rubirosa holding out a handful of paper towels.

"Thanks." Regan wiped her face dry.

"Stomach flu?" Rubirosa asked.

"No," Regan said. "I'm just – " She stopped, remembering that this was not Connie Rubirosa, distant-but-friendly colleague, but ADA Rubirosa, second chair on the other side of the aisle. "I'm fine."

"You've got a tough gig," Rubirosa said, leaning against the wall with her arms folded.

"Yours is tougher," Regan said. "At least I'm on the right side of this."

Rubirosa hesitated. "You sound very certain," she said, and Regan wondered if it was her imagination or if there was a question in the ADA's voice.

"I am, Connie," Regan said. She wadded up the paper towels and threw them in the trash.

"You're – _close _– to Jack," Rubirosa said. "It's natural you'd think that."

"Are you asking for a preview of my case?" Regan asked.

"From the look on your face when I folded my hand in there, you don't _have_ a case."

"From the look on your face in arraignment yesterday, you're not so sure you have one either," Regan said, and knew she'd hit home when Rubirosa stiffened.

"Then your job ought to be easy," Rubirosa said. "If you're sure we don't have a case, put us to proof and get your 'not guilty' verdict."

"It's not good enough," Regan said. "This is already tabloid fodder. You might not make your case, but it will still follow Jack around for the rest of his career – his _life_. Will Joe Citizen think that 'not proven' is the same as 'innocent'?"

Rubirosa studied the toes of her shoes. "We're going to bring the case to trial, Regan," she said.

"You and Michael Cutter," Regan said. She remembered Serena's briefing on Michael 'Cut-throat' Cutter: hard-working, impressive conviction record, ruthlessly willing to exploit weakness in witnesses or opponents to get a win in court. _He likes to win_, Serena had said, and when Danielle Melnick had laughed and said that _everybody_ liked to win, Serena had shaken her head. _There's things I won't do, that __**you**__ won't do. Even things that __**Jack**__ won't do, although I've never worked out what. Word around the water-cooler in Narcotics is that there's __**nothing**__ Cutter won't do. _

Regan came back to the present as Rubirosa nodded, looking troubled. "He's never worked with Jack," she said. "Not even as much as me, and I only tried that one case with him last year."

Regan nodded, remembering that Rubirosa had been one of the ADA's who'd been churned-and-burned by McCoy in the months immediately after Alex Borgia's death.

"Branch – " Rubirosa said, then stopped. She took a quick step the side and looked under the doors of the stalls, making sure they were alone. "Branch promised him Jack's job if he wins the case," she said on a rush. "And all he knows about Jack is – all he knows is that he's a defendant. And Mike throws defendants in jail. By hook or by crook."

Regan absorbed the warning, nodding slowly. "Why did you fold so fast on speedy trial?" she asked.

"Mike is happy to get Dyson on the stand before her bruises fade," Rubirosa said.

"Does he trust you?" Regan asked.

Rubirosa laughed a little unhappily. "He _won't_ if he gets wind of this conversation."

"Then play it straight," Regan said. "You don't know me. And that's easy, because Connie, you _don't_, not really, not to have a cup of coffee even. Work the case. Let Mike Cutter know you're coloring inside the lines."

"Protect myself," Rubirosa said a little bitterly.

"Make sure that when you put your point of view to him he doesn't dismiss it out of hand," Regan said quietly. "I was hoping for a fair hearing from the D.A's Office on this. Not special consideration, but not a jihad either."

Rubirosa shook her head. "You won't get it from Mike."

"He might not give _me_ a fair hearing," Regan said. "So make sure he gives _you_ one."

Rubirosa nodded, her expression telling Regan that it wasn't likely. Before she could say anything else, however, the door swung open and a pair of ADA's from Fraud hurried in, forestalling any further conversation.

Regan picked up her briefcase from the floor. When she straightened, Connie Rubirosa was gone.

* * *

.oOo.

* * *

A/N: Those of you familiar with the law will know that I have misused the concept of 'speedy trial' for the purposes of this story, as I did in _Ghosts._ In New York, statute defines the right to a speedy trial as requiring the prosecution to be ready for trial within six months on all felonies except murder, but just as I have spared the readers endless descriptions of people brushing their teeth and catching the subway to work, accidentally stepping on gum and picking up their dry-cleaning, I have spared myself six months of trial preparation. It's fanfic, guys! Whaddya want?


	12. Private Practice

A/N: Once again, thanks to my beta, RebeccaInley, and to Lynn46.

Poll still open on my profile page, folks!

* * *

**Private Practice**

* * *

_Mickey's Diner_

_102 Centre St_

_10 am Tuesday May 8__th__ 2007_

* * *

Regan reached for another packet of sugar from the bowl on the table and then put it back. She'd already reduced three to shreds of paper and piles of white crystal as she waited.

_Briscoe said ten, right?_ She checked the note she'd written on a post-it to be sure. _Yeah, ten. _

The veteran homicide detective had been sympathetic when Regan had called him late yesterday as she waited for McCoy to finish unpacking the boxes of law books he'd brought to Abbie's house. Just remembering the comfort she'd felt at the sound of his voice, warm and reassuring, made Regan's eyes prickle with threatening tears. She wished futilely that he could work the case for her.

But there was no way he could. He hadn't offered, and Regan hadn't asked. Instead, he'd told her there was a former homicide detective, working private now for family reasons, who she could trust and rely on.

Regan looked again at the post-it note. _Rey Curtis. _

Briscoe had even called Curtis for her, to make sure the man would take the case, no matter how much other work he might have.

So here she was, sitting in a booth in Mickey's Diner across the road from the courthouse, in the corner at the back where she and this private detective would have some privacy, waiting for Briscoe's retired partner.

The door opened and she looked up expectantly, then felt her shoulders slump as a tall man came into the diner, too young to be the retired cop she was waiting for. She checked the note again. _Definitely ten. _She looked at her watch. _One minute past. Okay, so not really late._ It _felt_ like he was late to Regan.

"Ms Markham?" a voice asked, smooth as a café latte sweetened with honey.

Regan looked up to see the man she'd watched come into the diner looking down at her. Up close, he wasn't quite as young as she'd thought. _But even better looking. _The strength of his jaw was just enough counterpoint to his liquid eyes and full mouth. Regan might have guessed he was a model, but she could see the edge of a shoulder holster beneath the lapel of his jacket. "That's me," she said.

He held out his hand. "I'm Rey Curtis. Lennie Briscoe told me to meet you here."

"Oh!" Regan shook his hand, and gestured to the seat opposite her. "I'm sorry, I was expecting – "

"Someone older?" Curtis guessed, smiling. He sat down. "I took early retirement."

"_Very_ early," Regan said, returning his smile.

"My wife needed more of my time," Curtis explained. He put extra stress on the word _wife_ and Regan realized he was letting her know right up front that he was a devoted husband. _Does he think I'm going to jump him right here in the diner?_ she wondered, a little amused. Then she took another look at him and thought that maybe Rey Curtis _did_ have legitimate reasons to put immediate roadblocks in the path of female attention.

"Lennie said you were good," Regan said.

"That's high praise," Curtis said. "I'll try to live up to his recommendation."

"Did he tell you why I was looking to hire you?" Regan asked, taking a contract form and a pen out of her briefcase.

"Criminal defense," Curtis said. "I have to tell you, Ms Markham, I don't really do that kind of work."

"What do you do?" Regan asked.

"Missing persons, mostly," Curtis said. He shrugged. "There's not a lot of – _moral ambiguity_ – in missing persons. Someone's missing, you do your best to find them. I do some divorce work, too, from time to time. Mostly tracking assets."

"Not sitting in cars outside motels?" Regan asked.

"I did enough of that as a _cop_," Curtis said.

Regan caught the way his gaze slid away from hers as he said it and guessed there was more to it than that, but she didn't push it. "You don't have to worry about moral ambiguity here, Mr. Curtis. I have an innocent client who has been framed." She pushed the contract across the table to him and held out the pen. "Sign, please."

"I haven't decided to take your case," Curtis objected.

"And the contract doesn't oblige you to. But it does mean that if you're subpoenaed by the prosecution you won't be able to answer any questions about this conversation."

Curtis hesitated, and took the pen. "Framed, huh?" He signed his name in small, neat writing. "By the police? Because I have to tell you – "

"By the complaining witness," Regan said. "My client is Jack McCoy, Mr. Curtis. I believe you know him."

He pushed the contract back toward her, pen laid on top of it, before answering. "I've read something in the papers about Jack being in some kind of trouble."

Regan gave him a succinct outline of the case so far, the allegations, her speculations about the GHB, and their impossible deadline.

"With all due respect, Ms Markham, that all sounds kind of far-fetched," Curtis said when she'd finished.

"I know," Regan said. "That's why I need to prove it. Or at least some of it. By Thursday. By Friday, at the latest."

"Tall order," Curtis said. He was not looking at her as he spoke, and Regan felt her heart sink.

"Something on your mind, detective?" she asked bluntly.

He _did_ look at her then. "It's Mr. Curtis now."

"Something on your mind, _Mr. Curtis_?"

"Yes," he said. "This whole story – it doesn't make sense. It sounds like the kind of thing defense lawyers come up with when they don't have anything else. You make it sound like this woman _planned_ the whole thing. Did she just _happen_ to have a Mickey Finn in her handbag? And if McCoy _didn't_ hit her, who did? And why would she have this kind of a grudge against him, to go so far to set him up?"

"I don't have the answer to any of those questions," Regan said. "That's why I need to hire you." She leaned forward. "Look. I agree, there are a lot of unanswered questions, and a lot of things that don't make sense. But you _know_ Jack McCoy. Do you think he did this?"

"I knew McCoy nearly ten years ago," Curtis said. "I know he was raised a Catholic, but didn't live the kind of life the church _approves_ of. I know he used to drink more than maybe he should have. I know he had a temper." He studied her. "And from the look on your face, I can guess that none of that has changed. But how do I know what _has_?"

"I can tell you, Jack hasn't changed into the kind of man who beats on women," Regan said.

"You're absolutely sure?" Curtis said.

"_Absolutely_," Regan said.

He gave a little laugh. "I never could figure out how a man like him could get so many women twisted around his little finger."

"I'm not twisted around his little finger," Regan said tartly. "I work with him, that's all."

"Yeah, that's what Claire used to say, too," Curtis said. "Until they couldn't hide it any more."

"I'm not Claire Kincaid," Regan said, rubbing her forehead. _Obviously. _Curiosity tugged at her, and she hesitated, and then asked: "You knew her well?"

"She was a nice lady. I didn't always agree with her politics, but I liked her. _Everybody _liked her." He shrugged. "I was in Homicide, she was an ADA. I wouldn't say I knew her _well_."

"Would you say you knew _Jack_ well?" Regan said.

Curtis paused. "No," he said.

"Well, _I_ do." Regan held his gaze. "And I _know_ he didn't do this. So will you help me out here?"

Curtis nodded slowly. "Okay," he said.

"I need answers to all those questions you raised. I need to know where she got the drugs, who her dealer is. I need to know why she picked Jack, I need to know how she faked the attack. And I need proof that he's innocent."

"I'll work up a background on her for you," Curtis said. "Talk to her friends, her neighbors. It's not going to be easy to find her dealer, though."

"Do your best," Regan said.

"Does Jack have security cameras in his building?"

"I don't know. He has a doorman," Regan said.

"I'll find out. There might be footage of Dyson leaving, or maybe a witness. If she was uninjured … "

"That'd be good," Regan said.

"If I find something that _doesn't _support your theory," Curtis said, "Ms Markham, the prosecution can't force me to violate privilege – but if you put me on the stand, I'm not going to perjure myself. I wouldn't do it for Jack McCoy when I was a cop, and I won't do it now."

"I won't ask you to," Regan promised.

"Alright," Curtis said. "I'll call you first thing tomorrow with an update and we'll take it from there."

"I appreciate this, detect – _Mr. Curtis_," Regan said, standing as he did. "Thank you."

"Thank Lennie Briscoe," Curtis said. "He told me I should help you. That you were stand-up."

Regan felt herself blush a little. "I'll try to deserve that," she said, pleased.

Curtis showed her his dazzling smile again. "Living up to Lennie's expectations isn't a bad guide for life."

* * *

.oOo.

* * *

A/N: Thank you to everyone who has reviewed, especially to those of you who took time to point out particular points or issues.

And if you're one of the many people Reader Traffic tells me are reading – I appreciate your patronage! Why not hit the review button? This story has taken me hundreds of hours to write – why not spend a minute letting me know what you think? A quick click, a few keystrokes, and you've made my day.


	13. Diminished Capacity

A/N: Thanks again to RebeccaInley and Lynn46 – their help has made this story immeasurably stronger. Any remaining flaws are entirely my own.

**

* * *

**

**Diminished Capacity**

* * *

_Abbie Carmichaels' Townhouse_

_10 am Tuesday May 8__th__ 2007_

* * *

Jack McCoy rubbed his eyes. Fatigue weighed on him, but he knew he had no chance of catching a nap. He'd managed to get a few hours of sleep the previous night after Regan had stormed upstairs to her bed, tossing and turning on Abbie's couch, but his eyes had been wide open well before dawn.

_Don't, John, stop it, don't, please – _

No matter how he tried, he couldn't bring that Thursday night clear. He clenched his fist and studied it, trying to imagine it smashing into Keri Dyson's face. Imagination failed.

Regan's desperate theory that he'd been drugged made a lot less sense to him than his own conviction that he couldn't remember because he couldn't _bear _to. _What a man, _he thought sickly. _Man enough to beat a woman, not man enough to face what you've done_.

He _could_ imagine Keri being hit – could imagine her terrified face – could imagine looking up as a man with huge hands pushed her against the wall and pulled back one big fist and –

Couldn't imagine that fist being the one at the end of his arm.

_But it was._

The one time John McCoy senior had ever told his eldest son he was proud of the kind of man he was turning into ­– _You might finally be growing up into a real man, Johnny_ – Jack McCoy had decided then and there that he would never be what his father considered to be 'a real man'. He could still remember his smart-aleck answer – _If you're a real man I'd rather be a goddamn monkey_ – and the pain of the blow that had followed.

He'd made his own code. When Regan had joked about 'Jack McCoy, self-made man with unskilled labor', she'd been closer to the mark than she could possibly have realized. McCoy had worked out his own patchwork system of ethics, based partly on the Church he'd stopped attending, partly on the opposite of what his father valued, partly on the philosophy and ethics he read as a law school, on the Constitution and the principles behind it, on the arguments he had with fellow students and later with colleagues … nowadays McCoy couldn't have pointed to any one thing he believed it and explain where it came from.

Except that single, central belief – _I am not my father, and I will not become him _– that single central belief that had been proven false.

_Own up to it, damn it!_ _You couldn't stop yourself becoming him – at least do what he never did. Admit what you did, admit it was wrong. Take responsibility. Face the music. _

McCoy had wondered sometimes what his own childhood would have been like if his father had been man enough to do just that. _Or if he hadn't been protected by his badge and his buddies from the consequences. _If John McCoy senior had been arrested the first time he'd left his wife bleeding on the floor … _I don't know what it would have been like to grow up in a home, not a battleground. _

_But it would have been different. _

_It would have been safe. _

"Jack?" Abbie's low voice came from the hall.

_And if the years I've spent fighting for the safety of the people in this jurisdiction are going to mean anything at all, I have to make sure that no-one ever asks that question about me. _

"I'm in here," McCoy said. He scrubbed his hands over his face, trying to rub away any signs of exhaustion.

Abbie stopped in the living room doorway, head tilted to one side, and said bluntly: "You look like shit, Jack." McCoy smiled to realize his efforts had been wasted. _Can't fool Abbie_, he thought. _Never could. _"I'm not joking," Abbie said, coming to lean on the arm of the couch beside him.

"What are you doing home?" he asked her. "You feeling okay?"

"Feeling better than you. What time did you let that poor girl get some sleep last night?" Abbie asked.

"She's not a girl. And I don't know," McCoy lied. "I know you thought I was hard on her – but it worked, she won the motion. Trial on Thursday."

"_Thursday_!" Abbie stood up in shock. "No ADA can get a case fully prepped that fast – and no defense attorney can, either!"

"Connie Rubirosa didn't oppose," McCoy said.

"Why not?"

"Regan didn't say." Regan hadn't said much of anything in her quick phone call, voice tight, words clipped. "But I'm glad it's moving quickly. I want it over with."

"They must think they have a smoking gun," Abbie said. She took a few steps across the room, then a few steps back, hand pressed into the small of her back as she balanced against the weight of her swollen belly. "But Regan's going to be flat-out preparing – opening statements take time to draft, preparing for cross – "

"She'll be fine." McCoy said.

"She won't be _fine_," Abbie said, sinking down onto the couch beside him. "_I_ wouldn't be fine. What the hell do you expect her to be able to do with that time-frame?"

"Stand up and sit down when she's told," McCoy said tersely. "That's all she's got, anyway. Except some cock-and-bull story about – "

"Okay, I did _not_ just hear you say that," Abbie said sternly. "I don't have privilege and if you voluntarily _break_ privilege then Regan doesn't either. So don't even _think_ about saying something that might imply you don't believe the theory of the crime your lawyer is going to present to the court." She leaned forward and glared at him intently. "You got that?"

"Yeah," McCoy said.

"You know, I really wish I could kick some sense into you," Abbie said. "But I don't want to end up on the stand as a witness for the prosecution, so I'll restrain myself. And from the look of you, you've been beating yourself up enough for both of us." She studied him. "You were always willing to go the extra mile when it came to cases with – "

"Drop it, Abbie," McCoy warned, launching himself to his feet and putting a safer distance between them.

"I'm just wondering if your judgment is as good as it usually is," Abbie said.

"If my judgment was any good," McCoy snapped, fists clenched, "I wouldn't have – "

_No, John, stop it – don't, please!_

He shook his head, trying to shake loose the memory, and forced himself to open his hands.

"Okay," Abbie said. She paused. "Jack, maybe you should stay here for a few days."

_Bad idea. _"You've already got someone in your spare room," McCoy pointed out.

"You've slept on the couch plenty of night," Abbie said. "And – I'd feel better. I don't like to think of you on your own."

McCoy shook his head. "I'm better off on my own." _And you – and Regan – are better_ _off with me out from under this roof. _

"Humor me," Abbie said. "Please, Jack. At least think about it." She leaned forward as if about to stand up. "Promise me you'll think about it."

McCoy nodded before she could get up and come any closer to him. "I'll think about it."

"Will you think about doing what your attorney advises, too?" Abbie asked.

"I thought you were going to stay out of this," McCoy reminded her.

"I'm already in it, Jack," Abbie said. "Like everyone who cares about you. Maybe you should think about _that_ in your race to throw yourself off the judicial cliff." She paused, and then said very softly: "If you go to jail, Jack, what am I going to do?"

"False vulnerability is particularly unconvincing coming from Hang 'Em All Carmichael," McCoy said without turning to look at her.

"Jack," Abbie said. "Jack! Look at me."

Reluctantly, he did. Her hands rested protectively over her stomach, and her eyes were full of unshed tears.

"I'm seven months pregnant. My husband is on active duty on the other side of the world. My family lives in Texas. And I am scared shitless." Her voice cracked, her lip quivered.

"Hey, you'll be fine, Tom'll be fine," McCoy said quickly. He hesitated, but she was looking at him so imploringly he couldn't keep from crouching down beside her and resting his hand over hers. "He'll be back before – "

"_Maybe_," Abbie said. She covered his hand with her own, holding him fast. "Everything in my life is _maybe_. _Maybe_ I'll be okay. _Maybe _nothing will go wrong in the next two months. _Maybe_ nothing will go wrong after that. _Maybe _my husband won't get shot or blown up. _Maybe, _maybe,goddamn maybe! The only thing in my life that is never 'maybe' is this one friend I have, who never lets me down."

"Abbie…" McCoy said.

"And I _need_ him, Jack, I need my friend!" Abbie said, tears falling now. "I can't do this without him! And you're going to just let them put him in jail!"

"Abbie, it's not so simple," McCoy said.

"You promised me, do you remember, you promised me that all I had to do was call, and you'd come?" Her grip was painfully tight. "Did you mean it? Or was it just more McCoy blarney?"

"Abbie…" McCoy said. "You don't understand what you're asking."

"I'm asking you to keep your promise," Abbie said insistently. "I want you to fight these charges, and stay out of jail, and be there when I bring my baby home from the hospital."

She gasped suddenly, and at the same moment McCoy felt the percussion of her unborn baby's kick.

"This baby agrees," Abbie said. "Jack."

"I can't promise," McCoy said. "I can't – Abbie, if I told you – "

"Promise me you'll consider it," Abbie said.

McCoy hesitated. "Okay," he said at last.

Abbie let him go, and brushed her fingers across her eyes. "Damn hormones," she grumbled. "Can't talk about anything important without getting emotional."

She started to heave herself to her feet. McCoy stood up and took her hand, hauling her up off the couch.

"See?' she said, swatting his arm. "If you go to jail, I'm never going to be able to sit down again without worrying I'll end up stuck on that couch like a beached whale."

McCoy looked down at her, her eyes red-rimmed. He couldn't make her a promise he might not be able to keep, but nor could he tell her the truth. _That I'm going to jail because I deserve to_.

_That this apple fell all too close to the McCoy family tree._

Without speaking, he pulled her close, feeling her arm and fragile in his arms. He'd long ago realized that there were some things he couldn't protect her from.

_But there are some things I can._

_I'll keep you safe, Abbie._

_Even from myself. _

* * *

......

* * *

Abbie took her laptop and cell phone up to her bedroom and shut the door behind her. She opened up her on-line banking program as she dialed Danielle Melnick's phone number.

"Melnick," a familiar voice said, Danielle's nasal New York accent giving even her own name a cynical edge.

"Danielle, Abbie Carmichael," Abbie said, trying to sound equally professional and dispassionate. Her throat felt tight and sore, as if she had been crying hard. _Damn hormones_. She hated crying in front of anyone, even McCoy. Still, maybe she'd managed to shock McCoy out of his determination to rail-road _himself_ to a conviction.

_I can only hope_.

She swallowed against the lump in her throat. "Did you hear from Regan?"

"Thursday," Danielle said grimly. "Sally's in court tomorrow but I'm going to clear my diary for the day. We've got work to do."

"We've already got donations coming in," Abbie said. "It looks like we won't have time to _spend_ them."

"We'll have bills," Danielle said. "You'd better put me as a signatory on the account, so you don't have to know what they're for."

"I'll email you the form," Abbie said, doing just that as she spoke.

"Thanks," Danielle said. "Abbie – how's Jack doing?"

"He looks like hell and he's ready to nail _himself_ to the cross if Mike Cutter can't find enough nails," Abbie said. "Do you know what's going on with him? You know, it's always been nearly impossible to get Jack to admit he's made a mistake – when he _has_. I would have expected him to fight this tooth and nail, not roll over and die!"

"I've known Jack a long time," Danielle said, her usually businesslike voice softening a little. "I – " She paused. "You know, in second year Crim Law class, the professor made a distinction between a 'real' assault and a 'domestic'. _I_ was outraged – but it was _Jack_ who organized the petition to get him fired."

"Those cases always seemed to hit him hardest," Abbie agreed.

"Always seemed to hit him close to _home_," Danielle said. "Not that he'd ever talk about it. Jack McCoy, talk the leg off a table under wet cement on any topic except himself or how he might actually personally feel about something."

"I don't know anything about Jack's background," Abbie said slowly. "It sounds like you're suggesting – "

"I'm not suggesting anything," Danielle said firmly. "Especially not to someone who doesn't enjoy any privilege for this conversation. But I will _tell_ you something. Convincing the jury that Jack is not guilty is going to be hard, but it's going to be a hell of a lot easier than convincing _Jack _that he's innocent."

"Higher standard of proof," Abbie said.

"Different rules of evidence," Danielle said.

* * *

.oOo.

* * *

A/N: The promise Abbie refers to is actually in an unfinished story of mine. So the conversation is inconsistent with canon – but hopefully one day will be consistent within my own fanon.


	14. Hostile Witness

A/N: Thanks again to RebeccaInley for outstanding work betaing and to Lynn46 for helping me kick around ideas.

* * *

**Hostile Witness**

**

* * *

**

_Mickey's Diner_

_102 Centre St_

_10.30 am Tuesday May 8__th__ 2007_

_

* * *

_

Regan walked Rey Curtis out of the diner and watched him stride away down the street. She dug her phone out of her pocket and double-checked that she hadn't missed a call. _No_. She'd reached Danielle Melnick and Sally Bell to tell them about the catastrophic chambers hearing, left messages for Serena and Nora Lewin, and since then had been hoping against hope that one of them would call back with a solution, some brilliant piece of lawyerly logic that would enable them to get the case held over to the next gap in Wright's calendar, that would give her time to come up with a better defense than _I didn't do it, nobody saw me, you can't prove anything._

_Especially since my client won't even co-operate with __**that**__ pathetic effort. _

As yet, she'd received no reprieve. Regan's stomach twisted at the thought of court on Thursday, and she glanced after Rey Curtis, carrying all the hopes of McCoy's defense on his shoulders.

She pushed away the anxiety, locking it away in the box inside her head where she had learnt to keep distractions that she couldn't afford. _Don't be worrying about your grocery shopping while your partner is getting a bullet in the head_, Gran-Da had advised, and Regan had taught herself to put everything aside for as long as the job demanded, put it aside and shut it away.

_Job to do. _

_Partner going through a door._

No guns, this time, but the consequences could be just as lethal.

_Job to do. Deposition time. _

She walked the few blocks to One Hogan Place, using the time to try and clear her head_. Easier said than done. _The sense of helplessness that gripped her whenever she contemplated the days ahead set her gut churning and her head spinning, brought with it the sound of screaming and the taste of blood. _Help me, El, oh god it hurts it hurts …_

_Goddamn it_, she raged at herself. _You don't have time for this! __**Jack**__ doesn't have time for this!_

For the first time in weeks she had to resort to the calming techniques Emil Skoda had taught her. Imagining herself in a car speeding along the open road at night, the white line rolling towards her, Regan took deep breaths and waited for her heart-rate to slow.

Walking in to the DA's Office without her badge was disorienting, punching the button for Narcotics on sixth rather than the tenth floor more so. Regan imagined that the ADAs she passed were staring at her, thought she could read the shocked fascination of car-wreck rubber-neckers on their faces. _Move along here, people_, she thought, _nothing to see._

Nothing except an ADA gone suddenly radioactive. McCoy had handed her a big lump of career kryptonite when he'd picked her to handle those two complaints and then flim-flammed her into being his attorney. Regan wouldn't have blamed her former colleagues if they had shrunk back against the wall as she passed to avoid contamination.

Mike Cutter didn't shrink away from her when she reached the conference room, but stepped forward briskly, hand outstretched to take hers. His grip was firm and decisive, his eyes keen. _Cut-throat Cutter_, Regan remembered. She wondered if he was making a deliberate attempt to intimidate her. _If he is, it's working. _

Connie Rubirosa was already there, along with the court reporter.

"Ms Dyson will be here in a few minutes," Rubirosa said. "With her lawyer."

"Ms Dyson doesn't feel that the DA's Office adequately represents her interests in this?" Regan asked.

"Ms Dyson is a defendant in a matter being handled by Tracey Kibre," Cutter said. "She has an interest against self-incrimination."

"What's her defense?" Regan asked casually, trying hard to appear as if she was only making idle conversation.

"I'm not going to discuss that with you, Ms Markham, and you should know better than to ask," Cutter said with absolutely no inflection to his voice.

"I apologize," Regan said. "I simply can't help noting that the DA's Office has not yet seen fit to interview _my_ client on the matter of _People v Dyson_."

"Directing that inquiry to Ms Kibre would be more appropriate," Cutter said. "Stop fencing, Ms Markham. You work with Jack McCoy, so no doubt you're good – but I'm better."

The door behind Regan opened and she turned to see Keri Dyson and Lanie Stieglitz.

"Does _she_ have to be here?" Keri asked immediately.

"Yes," Cutter answered. "The defense has the right to be present at discovery depositions. But don't worry, Ms Dyson, she can't ask you any questions or interfere in the proceedings in any way." He shot a warning glance at Regan, and she nodded, doing her best to look meekly co-operative.

In fact, if Lanie Stieglitz hadn't been successful in getting a temporary restraining order against McCoy coming within a hundred yards of her client, _he_ would have had the right to be here too. Regan wondered if Lanie might not have done her a favor. Keri's bruises had advanced to their most startling stage of blue and purple. She looked every inch the much wronged, much abused woman, and thinking back to McCoy's shock at seeing her yesterday at arraignment, Regan was glad he was prevented from being here today.

_It's going to be interesting when she testifies,_ Regan thought. _Of course, I hope by then Rey Curtis has turned up something that will make it pretty interesting for __**her**__, too. _

But she couldn't ask any probing questions here today, testing the edges of Keri's story. Nor, she noted, did Cutter, not that she would have expected him to make such a novice mistake in front of a defense attorney. This deposition was a court document, not witness prep. _No doubt Cutter and Connie will spend plenty of time with Keri over the next few days making sure her story is trial ready. _

Today, Keri only had to repeat what she'd said in her complaint, and Regan noted she did it almost word­-for-word. _No new information for us to work with_. She took notes anyway – the number of drinks Keri said McCoy had (three); the way they'd gotten from the bar to McCoy's apartment (a cab which Dyson had paid for); where she said the assault had taken place (in the hall); what she'd done afterwards (fled sobbing). It all sounded plausible – to anyone who didn't know Jack McCoy.

_And to a few who do_, Regan thought glumly, looking at Lanie Stieglitz sitting protectively close to her client.

Although uncomplicated, the deposition took hours. As the court reporter packed up, Regan glanced at Connie Rubirosa and was glad to see that she looked troubled, a slight frown creasing her perfect face as she studied the papers in front of her.

_Ask her the right questions_, Regan willed the other woman. _Ask everyone the right questions. Find out what happened, in case I don't manage to. _

Connie looked up, caught Regan's eye and quickly looked away.

Regan sighed silently, shoved her notepad into her briefcase, and followed Lanie and Keri out of the conference room.

In the corridor she caught sight of the door to the restroom closing behind Keri. Lanie Stieglitz set her briefcase down and folded her arms, obviously preparing to wait for her client. As Regan passed her, the other woman spoke.

"I'm surprised at you, Ms Markham," she said abruptly.

"I can't imagine why," Regan snapped, barely checking her stride.

"I would have thought that a young woman," Lanie said, following Regan toward the elevator, "A young woman with _your_ background and life experience, wouldn't be so quick to spring to the defense of a man who commits this kind of crime."

"First of all," Regan said, stopping dead in the corridor and turning to face Lanie, "I'm not young."

"From my perspective?" Lanie said with a smile.

"Secondly," Regan went on, refusing to be mollified, "I don't know what you mean by _my_ background and _my _life experience."

"You have a law enforcement background," Lanie said. "Don't look surprised. You've been Arthur Branch's favorite fund-raising speechmaker for a couple of months now. Word gets around. _And_ you've been the victim of male violence yourself, if the newspaper reports about the Walters shooting were correct."

"And thirdly, and most particularly importantly, I'm not springing to the defense of 'a man', as you so disdainfully put it, but _Jack McCoy_, my colleague and yours, _Jack McCoy_ who I am perfectly confident would cut off his right hand before he raised it in anger against a woman, _Jack McCoy_ who is, might I remind you, innocent until proven guilty." Regan realized her fists were clenched and made an effort to relax them. "So don't talk to me about law enforcement, and male violence, Ms Stieglitz. The background and life experience that's relevant here is knowing the kind of man Jack McCoy is and knowing what he's capable of and what he'd _never, ever _do."

"Dear," Lanie said, "When you get to my age you'll understand, there's very little that people aren't capable of, under the right circumstances."

"Including your client," Regan said. "If your client's story is true, why did she go to Jack and try and blackmail him into giving her a promotion, instead of going straight to the police?"

"She was upset and confused by the betrayal of her trust by someone she looked up to and admired," Lanie said. "Jack McCoy is twisting the situation to try and weaken her credibility as a witness against him."

"That might fly in front of a jury," Regan said, "But I was in the room. It's my signature on the complaints. And I can tell you now, that's not the way it played out."

Regan hoped she saw a flicker of uncertainty in Lanie's eyes. If it was there, and not just her wishful thinking, it was quickly gone. "Of course you're taking his side in this," Lanie said. She put her hand on Regan's arm. "I've known Jack for a lot of years. He's a great lawyer, and a man with a lot of integrity, at least by his own standards. But he's just a man, when it's all said and done – a man with more than a few flaws. One of which is charming the pants off any woman who spends too much time with him. So look out for yourself. Don't let your feelings for him get in the way of your good judgment. Look at this case dispassionately."

"For someone who has built a career on women's rights," Regan snapped, "You have a remarkably low opinion of our intelligence. I'm thinking with my _brain_, Ms Stieglitz, not my heart – or any _other_ part of my anatomy."

She turned on her heel and strode for the elevator, too angry to trust herself to say anything further. Inside, she punched the button for the ground floor with a hard blow with a side of her hand, hard enough to bring tears to her eyes.

_Great_. Regan studied the side of her hand as the elevator lurched downwards, seeing the reddening mark that would turn into a bruise. _This case goes much longer I'm not going to be able to hold a pen. _

Deep in thought, she walked straight past the subway entrance and only realized her mistake two blocks later. About to retrace her steps, she stopped. The late afternoon air was pleasantly warm, and the thought of the commuter crush turned her stomach.

_Do I really have time to waste?_ she wondered, and then decided that maybe the walk would clear her head. _Worth it._

However, any measure of calm the long walk home gave her quickly evaporated when she unlocked the front door and saw McCoy in the hall, wanting to rehash the morning's chamber's hearing.

"We don't need to talk about it," Regan said dully. "It's done. It's over."

"You must have done some pretty good tap-dancing," McCoy said. "Thursday – that's even sooner than I'd – "

"I didn't do any damn tap-dancing, Rubirosa folded her cards," Regan snapped. _Thursday_. Her stomach twisted.

"I guess she saw she was outclassed," McCoy said. _This is just exactly how he always is when I win a Hail Mary argument against a good defense lawyer,_ Regan thought. _Building my confidence. Encouraging me._

_How can he act like this is just one more case for me to cut my teeth on? _

"I need a glass of water," she said shortly, turning away from him and heading for the kitchen.

She turned on the tap and let it run, head bowed as she leaned on the edge of the sink. The steady hiss reminded her of the sound of tires on an empty road at night and she closed her eyes and concentrated on the feeling of peace the thought gave her.

"You might need a glass," McCoy said, right beside her, startling her and setting her pulse racing again.

She turned off the tap hard, and hissed in pain as the flanges dug into the side of her hand. "God – damn – " She couldn't find words violent enough to express the black fury that surged though her, clenched her fist and slammed it down on the counter, deliberately bruising the tender flesh further, and again.

"Hey!" McCoy caught her wrist. "Regan. Take it easy!"

She snarled wordlessly, turning to glare at him, struggling to escape his grip, but he held her fast, and when she grabbed his hand to peel his fingers away he hauled her closer to him, pinning her arms between them, his other arm around her shoulders.

"Take it _easy_," he said again, his tone making it an order, holding her too tightly for her to anything but lean against him.

"Fuck you," Regan said, but she stopped struggling.

McCoy chuckled, his grip on her easing. "Not the most sincere invitation I've ever had."

_Goddamn charming S.O.B_, Regan thought, smiling despite herself. She took a deep breath, then another, feeling panic ebb. "I hired a private detective today," she said after a few moments, her voice a little muffled by McCoy's shoulder.

He went still. "Why did you do that?" he asked at last, his voice even.

"To find out what happened – to find out what there is to know about Dyson – to help me prepare for trial. On _Thursday_." She raised her head and pulled away from him a little to look him in the eye. "You can't imagine I can do all the prep myself in _forty-eight hours_."

"You don't need prep," McCoy said. He let her go and took a step away from her.

"Your confidence, while touching, is misplaced," Regan said waspishly.

"You don't need prep because you won't be presenting a case," McCoy said. "No witnesses. No cross-examination of the _prosecution_ witnesses. No opening or closing statements."

"What the – oh for – Jack, we _talked_ about this," Regan said. "You were going to co-operate, remember? Let me try and salvage _my_ reputation, at least?"

"That was before I knew you weren't going to come up with anything better than some cock-and-bull story about drugs and a _frame-up_, for god's sake, as if _that's_ going to go anywhere."

"I think it's the truth, Jack," Regan said. "I think that's what happened."

He shook his head, not looking at her. "Intoxication is not an excuse."

"_Involuntary_ intoxication is a defense – " Regan started.

"I know it's a _defense_," McCoy interrupted. "I have been at this a _few_ years, Regan, I know the law and all the ways defense lawyers can help their clients escape the consequences of their actions. I'm not going to play that game."

Regan stared at him, unable to find words. Finally she ran her fingers through her hair.

"We'll talk about this later," she said. "Right now I have an appointment."

"With your private detective?" McCoy asked.

"With my _shrink_," Regan said. "Although, personally? I think you're the one who needs his services."

"I won't let you run an insanity defense, either," McCoy said, and Regan wasn't entirely sure he was joking.

* * *

.oOo.

* * *

A/N: Depositions in criminal trials are more often taken by the prosecution for the purpose of recording witness testimony in case the witness is not available for trial. However, in some jurisdictions, depositions form part of the discovery process. The defendant or his/her counsel does not have a constitutional right to be present unless the deposition is taken to preserve testimony of a witness who will be unable to testify at the trial, but statute may establish that right where the deposition is taken as part of the discovery process. I do not in fact know what the state of the law on this is in New York State, so I am pretending that NY is a jurisdiction with discovery depositions and statute-established rights for defense to be present.


	15. Privilege

A/N: Thanks again to RebeccaInley for her excellent work as a beta, and thanks to Lynn46 for helpful comments!

* * *

**Privilege**

* * *

_Emil Skoda's Office_

_6 pm Tuesday May 8__th__ 2007_

_

* * *

_

Regan didn't pause to knock before shoving open Skoda's office, hard enough to bounce the handle off the wall. Emil Skoda was reading and Regan thought she might have startled him but the psychiatrist was too skilled at hiding his own reactions for her to be sure. He raised his eyebrows and set his book aside.

"Hey," Regan said, catching the door as it rebounded toward her.

"Hello," Skoda said neutrally. When Regan didn't move, he asked: "Are you going to come in?"

Regan took a step forward and shut the door behind her, as hard as she'd opened it.

After a moment Skoda said: "Would you like to sit down?"

"Not really," Regan said. She held out her bruised hand with its grazed knuckles for him to see.

"How'd that happen?" Skoda asked.

"Wall. And elevator," Regan said.

"You're hitting inanimate objects instead of people," Skoda said. "I suppose we can call that progress."

"I wasn't hitting anything last week," Regan said. "I suppose we can call that regression."

"What's changed since then?" Skoda asked.

"You really _are_ out of the loop," Regan said.

"Not that far," Skoda said. "You've become a defense attorney. Has anything else changed?"

"No," Regan said shortly. "Nothing's changed except my boss has been charged with assault, arraigned and set down for trial the day after tomorrow, and he's acting like a complete – is this confidential?"

"Yes," Skoda said.

"What about what it does to my privilege with Jack? If I tell you something that would be covered by privilege as lawyer-client communication, doesn't that breach – ?"

"Only if it can be proved," Skoda said. "And since I can't testify without your permission, and I'm not taking any notes …"

"So long as I lie about it, everything's fine," Regan said, nodding. "Well, let me tell you, that's the _least_ of my worries. Jack's being a complete _ass_, he even wanted to plead _guilty_, and I'm having to fight this with both hands tied behind my back and even if I didn't I'm hardly a fucking legal eagle genius who can prepare a defense case in two days and take on the ADA Arthur Branch has hand-picked as Jack's successor, I mean, Jesus!" She whirled away from Skoda, needing to move, needing to act, needing to be able to _do_ something.

"How do you feel about that?" Skoda asked.

"How do I feel about being as much use as tits on a bull while my partner is – or _ought to be_ – fighting for his life and freedom?" Regan snapped. "How am I _supposed _to feel about that?"

"Sounds like you feel as if you can't do anything to help him," Skoda observed. He paused. When Regan just glared at him, refusing to fill the silence, he went on: "As if you feel _helpless_."

"What's your point?" Regan asked.

"You've felt helpless before," Skoda said. "At another time in your life. When – "

"Fucking _spare_ me," Regan said. "I worked that out for myself."

"Okay," Skoda said, studying her. Regan straightened her shoulders and hoped the shadows under her eyes weren't too visible. "Because it brought back the flashbacks and the dreams?"

"Yeah," Regan said sullenly.

"Have you been doing the exercises we talked about?"

"Yes, doctor, I have," Regan said. "But Jack doesn't have time for my bullshit baggage. I need to get it together and hold it together – this is his career, and his freedom, and his _life_ we're talking about, not some opportunity for my personal growth!"

She realized she was shouting and stopped.

"You should maybe be doing the exercises a little more often," Skoda said drily.

"Yeah," Regan said. She dropped into the chair opposite him with a sigh. "Can we talk about something else?"

"It's your hour," Skoda said, and shrugged. "You can talk about anything you want."

Regan noticed he didn't say '_we_ can talk about anything you want'. "I want to talk about Jack," she said. "I want your professional opinion – on why he's so hell-bent on letting them throw him into jail for something he didn't do."

Skoda steepled his hands. "I can't give you a professional opinion of someone without examining them."

"Speculate," Regan suggested.

Skoda gave a small, humorless laugh. "ADAs always want me to 'speculate'."

"Yeah, and you always say you can't and then you do," Regan said.

"Jack tell you that?" Skoda said, smiling. Regan nodded. "Okay. Let's talk hypothetically. Why do people plead guilty to crimes?"

"Jack's not _people_," Regan protested.

"You asked me to speculate," Skoda said. "Humor me. You've been working in the DA's Office for more than a year. Why do people take a plea?"

"Because they're guilty," Regan said promptly. "And they know we can prove it. But Jack's _not_ guilty, so – "

"Is every defendant who takes a plea guilty of what they're charged with? Or are they just guilty?" Skoda said. He leaned forward. "I've seen men confess to crimes their sons have committed – women confess to murdering children who died of natural causes."

"Why would they do that?' Regan asked.

"When it comes to parenting, there's always room for guilt. If only I'd taken my baby to the doctor – if only I'd realized earlier there was something wrong – been a better father – spent less time at work and more time at home … " He shrugged. "Parenthood brings responsibility. And if you're responsible, then when something goes wrong – "

"You're responsible for _that_, too," Regan said, nodding. "Guilty."

"Guilt is like _water_, Regan," Skoda said. "It finds the lowest level. Survivors of car crashes find ways to blame themselves for the accident. Or someone who saw colleagues shot to death, perhaps – and carries a burden of – "

"Off-topic," Regan warned sharply.

"Really?" Skoda asked, gaze shrewd.

"_Really_." Regan folded her arms. "So you're saying that Jack feels _responsible_ for whatever happened to Keri? Guilty?"

"I'm saying that someone might transfer a sense of guilt from one thing to something else," Skoda said. "Like you have."

"We're not talking about me," Regan reminded him.

"_You_ feel responsible – guilty – for Jack's situation," Skoda said.

"I'm not," Regan said. "I didn't drug his drink and I didn't frame him for assault."

"Then why do you feel guilty?"

"I'm not – " Regan said, and stopped. Skoda's gaze was very steady. She sighed. "I knew there was something wrong, that night. I _felt_ it. But I thought – I thought what I felt was jealousy. Maybe it _was_. I wasn't clear – in my head – . So it _is_ my fault, in a way. Those kind of feelings – they screw up partnership. And your partner needs you to watch their back, no matter what. And I didn't."

"What do you mean, 'those kind of feelings'?" Skoda asked.

"Romantic," Regan said.

"'Romantic' as a euphemism for sexual?" Skoda said, and Regan felt herself blush. "That's the first time you've talked about Jack in those terms."

"Nothing's happened," Regan said, stretching the truth a little. "And nothing's _going_ to happen. But … anyway, I should know better. I _do_ know better. I should have dealt with it, I shouldn't have been _distracted_."

"You sound like you're speaking from experience," Skoda said.

"I know what I'm talking about," Regan said. "Let's leave it at that."

"You can't blame yourself for your feelings," Skoda said. "Attraction is a powerful force."

"I can blame myself for letting it interfere with my judgment," Regan said. A thought struck her. "So what does Jack blame himself for?"

"That's an excellent question," Skoda said. "And one that Jack would have to answer."

"Because you don't know?" Regan said, watching Skoda closely. "No, that's not it, is it? Because you won't tell me."

"How could you believe I'd respect your confidence if I betrayed his?" Skoda asked reasonably.

"So it's something to do with doctor-patient confidentiality?" Regan asked.

Skoda shook his head. "No," he said. "Something to do with friend-friend confidentiality."

"If you're his friend, then you'll help him," Regan said.

"Betraying trust doesn't help anyone," Skoda said.

"So you're telling me I have to ask Jack?" Regan said.

"I'm telling you," Skoda said, "that you need to work out a way to get him to tell you." He paused. "Not quite the same thing."

.........

_Not at all the same thing, _Regan thought as she shut the front door of Abbie's house behind her, looking at the light from the living room spilling into the hall.

She stood for a moment in the doorway to the living room. McCoy was sitting on the couch, a book propped on his knee, and she studied his profile, the lines of strain that bracketed his mouth, the shadows around his eyes. Her chest hurt to look at him.

Her efforts to explain to Skoda why she had dismissed her sense of unease as she watched McCoy leave the bar with Keri Dyson had foundered on her inability to put her inchoate feelings into words, even to herself. _Romantic. _

_As if a word redolent of roses and chocolates could ever apply to Jack McCoy – or to me. _

Skoda had been blunter, and he'd hit closer to the mark. Regan could remember the tingling, aching warmth fired by the touch of McCoy's hand, the caress of his lips. Since she'd decided she would rather keep her job than join the notches on McCoy's headboard and put a very proper professional distance between them, McCoy had complained on more than one occasion that she didn't trust him.

Regan had smiled silently, not admitting to him that she trusted _him_ more than she trusted herself.

But _attraction_ wasn't all of what she felt, either. Leaning against the doorframe, what Regan wanted more than anything else in the world was to go to McCoy, to wrap her arms around him and run her fingers through his hair and somehow make it alright for him, to soothe away the marks of strain and the air of sadness that enveloped him.

But she couldn't. _What he needs right now is not meaningless reassurance or a comforting hug._

_What he needs right now is what he needed last Thursday – he needs his partner to step up and look out for him. _

Just like her Grand-Da had always said._ Your partner's broken down on the highway somewhere in the rain and the night, girl, what you gonna do? Stay inside where it's warm and dry, or drive out and find him?_

_When your partner needs you, what you want or how you feel doesn't matter. _

"Whatcha reading?" Regan asked. McCoy turned to look at her.

"Harvard Law Review," he said. "Article on appellate delay."

"You won't need an appeal," Regan said, trying to sound certain.

He closed the journal with a snap. "I won't be filing one."

_Oh, for _– Regan closed her lips over the exasperated words. "Uh-huh," she said noncommittally instead, and wandered over to the sideboard, picking up the bottle of whiskey standing there. "Drink?"

"No," McCoy said.

Regan poured herself a small one and sank down on the couch, turning to prop herself against the arm so she could look straight at him. "I've been thinking about the case," she said.

It was McCoy's turn to make a noncommittal noise.

"Have you ever prosecuted a case where the defendant was framed?" Regan asked.

"Plenty where they claimed to be," McCoy said.

Regan sipped her scotch. "Any of them right?"

He shrugged.

"Any cases where someone confessed to something they didn't do?"

"The police usually screen those out before they get to One Hogan Place," McCoy said. "There's always a few with big profile cases, or when the defendant is mentally unstable, or just plain publicity seeking."

"Any that didn't fit that profile?"

"If you're looking for examples to use in your opening statement, save your time," McCoy said. "You won't be giving one."

Regan drew breath for a heated reply and then forced herself to let it out gently. She leaned forward to set her empty glass on the table. "You've already said that. I'm just – talking."

"You've got all the subtlety of a sledgehammer," McCoy said, launching himself off the couch and striding across the room to the window. He stared out, although Regan doubted he could see anything other than his own reflection with the lights of the room behind him and the night-dark city ahead.

"I'm trying to understand why you're so eager to be condemned for something you didn't – "

"Something you _think_ I didn't – "

"Something _no-one_ can be _sure_ you did," Regan said. "Jack, I would think that you would need this _proved_ to you. Instead you're refusing to even consider evidence that points to your innocence."

"I'm not innocent," McCoy said.

"You're not _an_ innocent," Regan said. "But these are specific charges – whatever you feel guilty about – "

"I don't know what you think you're saying," McCoy said sharply, "But you should think again."

Regan bit back an equally sharp response. "I know what it's like to feel _responsible_," she said softly.

"You don't know anything," McCoy said dismissively.

"Then _tell_ me," Regan pleaded.

McCoy stared at her and for a moment Regan thought she'd persuaded him. Then he turned away. "There's nothing to tell," he said shortly.

"That's a pile of stinking pig-shit," Regan said, flinging herself to her feet and striding across the room to face him. "You've been hauled before the disciplinary committee for things you actually _did_ do and you fought like a Kilkenny cat."

"I was _cleared_ on – " McCoy started.

Regan jabbed him in the chest with one finger. "You were _cleared_ because you persuaded them that your actions _weren't_ a violation – just like you did with Serena, I know that story, she told me."

"Neither I _nor_ Serena had done anything wrong," McCoy said.

"And you don't know you've done anything wrong _now_!" Regan cried.

"I don't know what I've done," McCoy said. "And neither do you!"

"What I know is that when I wake up with a hangover and a gap in my memory I worry about whether I might have danced on a table or screwed somebody I shouldn't have," Regan said. McCoy snorted and started to turn away, and Regan grabbed his shirt to stop him. "Jack. I have a bad record when it comes to fist-fights. And _I'd_ want proof. You accepted Keri Dyson's story as gospel the minute it came out of her mouth. _Why_?"

McCoy seized her wrist, trying to pull himself free. Regan hung on.

"What the hell is going on, Jack?" she asked. "You've decided that you're guilty – so I need to know, as your lawyer, what that's based on. What the hell have you done that makes you guilty enough to take a plea on a crime you didn't commit?"

"This has nothing to _do_ with you!" McCoy succeeded in tearing her hand away from his shirt but Regan refused to back away. She braced herself for him to push her, but he only held her at arm's length.

"Oh, it has _everything _to do withme,"she said, making her voice hard and quiet, her best 'bad cop' tone. "You hired me, remember? You're my _client_. How does the New York State Bar Association 'Statement of Client's Responsibilities' go?"

"That's an informational statement with no binding legal – " McCoy said heatedly.

Regan interrupted him. "The client's relationship with the lawyer must be one of complete candor – " she quoted.

"The last thing _you_ want from me is complete candor!" McCoy snarled, dropping her wrist and turning away. "Do you want an honest appraisal of your standard of work in the DA's Office?"

Regan seized his arm and forced him to face her. "The lawyer," she said grimly, "must be apprised of all facts or circumstances even if the client believes those facts may be detrimental or unflattering."

"Facts or circumstances _relating to the matter_," McCoy said.

"The reason you would have entered a guilty plea if I hadn't stopped you, that's not relating to the matter?" Regan countered.

"Yeah, well, I should never have let you – "

"You should never have fucking _hired_ me," Regan snapped. "You handed me a big cup of career cyanide and me, stupid fool that I am, I trusted you and tossed it back. You want me to stay as your lawyer, don't give me a reason under DR 2-110 to withdraw!"

"You have no grounds for withdrawal," McCoy said, shaking himself free from her grip.

"Section C. One – D." Regan folded her arms and glared at McCoy. "You're rendering it unreasonably difficult for me to carry out my employment effectively."

"Your _employment _is to represent me," McCoy retorted. "Which you can do perfectly effectively by following my instructions. You want to quote the 'Code of Professional Responsibility'? How about EC 7-7 – or was that one of the questions you missed on your bar exam? I know there were more than a few!"

Regan took a sharp breath, stung almost to tears. "I know what EC 7-7 is," she said, proud that her voice didn't shake_. __The authority to make decisions is exclusively that of the client and such decisions are binding on the lawyer … it is for the client to decide what plea should be entered and whether an appeal should be taken ... _"I advised you of the consequences – "

"You exerted undue influence based on personal considerations," McCoy snapped. "Which, by the way, is also specifically covered by the Code. Lawyers should not allow their conduct of a case to be influenced by the desire to avoid antagonism with public figures or other members of the legal profession, or by their concern to maintain the security of their legal practice."

"Are you so familiar with the Code because you've spent so much time in front of the Bar Ethics Committee?" Regan asked spitefully.

"Nobody's ever accused me of not learning from experience," McCoy said.

"Nobody's ever accused you of not being a stubborn _ass_, either!" Regan snapped. "You won't tell me, you'll force me to find out for myself, turn over all the rocks – "

"_Mind your own goddamn business!_"

The fury in his voice shocked them both to silence.

The Regan took a careful breath. "If you'd tell me," she said reasonably, "I wouldn't have to go stomping around in your private –"

"I'm not listening to this any longer." McCoy grabbed his jacket from where it lay across the back of one of Abbie's armchairs.

"Where are you going?" Regan asked.

"Home," McCoy said. "In search of a bit of peace and quiet."

"I'll call you tomorrow," Regan said. McCoy headed into the hall without acknowledging her, and she followed him. "Jack? I'll call you tomorrow."

"Do what you want," McCoy said without turning.

The door closed behind him.

* * *

.oOo.

* * *

A/N: The 'Statement of Client's Responsibilities' and the 'New York Lawyer's Code of Professional Responsibility' are both real documents, which you can find on-line, but I have played a little fast-and-loose with the exact clauses that Regan and McCoy quote in this chapter, while trying to remain true to the meaning.

I have had the idea of maybe starting some awards for stories in the law and order fandoms posted here to ff net. I have started a forum to discuss this idea. I don't know how to post a link to it here in the story but you can find it in the Law and Order (mothership) forums. I am hoping to get opinions on this idea from as many ff net writers/ readers as possible. If you have any opinion, please check out the forum and let me know what you think with a post or by voting in the poll.


	16. Ticking Clock

A/N: Once again, thanks to everyone who left feedback, thanks to RebeccaInley for excellent work betaing, and thanks to Lynn46 for her insights.

* * *

**Ticking Clock**

**

* * *

**

_Abbie Carmichael's House_

_8 am Wednesday May 9__th__ 2007_

_

* * *

_

Regan looked at her watch. _Call Jack again? _shewondered. _It's been half-an-hour._

Her last call to his cell had gone straight to voicemail; his landline was continually engaged. _Switched off and off the hook respectively_, Regan had surmised.

Regan was reaching for her cell phone to try again when it started ringing. She snatched it up, hoping to hear McCoy's voice.

"Hello, Regan?" she heard Melinda Warner say. "You asked me to call Rob Jordan?"

"Yeah," Regan said. "Did you? Will he talk to me?"

"He'll talk to you," Melinda said. "But I don't think it's going to help you. Rob's been working in Baltimore since he want down there. He hasn't even set foot in Mercy since his last shift."

"But that's – his signature's on the chart," Regan said. "Is it forged? Why would a doctor – "

"I don't know," Melinda said. "All I can tell you is, Rob Jordan didn't treat Keri Dyson last week."

"Can you give me his number?" Regan asked, and wrote down the digits Melinda read out. "Thanks, Dr Warner. I appreciate it."

"You figure out the mystery," Melinda said, "let me know."

Regan cut the connection and dialed Serena Southerlyn's number. She told Serena what Melinda had said.

"I have to go," she said. "I'll call Dr Jordan, get on the train, I can be down there and get an affidavit from him – "

"No," Serena said. "You're thinking like you're still second-chairing for Jack. You need to stay on top of your PI, prep for tomorrow, write your opening statement – _I'll_ go to Baltimore. I can be back tonight. What's Dr Jordan's number?"

Regan gave it to her. As Serena rang off, Regan reflected that Serena was right – she _was_ still thinking as if she were second-chairing for McCoy – looking for him to give her a lead to follow, spinning her wheels when he refused.

_I have to stop thinking of him as my boss_, she thought. _I have to think of him as a client_.

She dialed her _client's_ number again. _Voicemail. Dial tone._

_Dammit, Jack! _

_I shouldn't have pushed him last night_, she thought. _But what choice did I have?_

_He needs a __**lawyer**__, not mollycoddling. _

On that thought, she called Rey Curtis and told him about the mystery of Rob Jordan's signature on a medical report he couldn't have written.

"I'll check it out," Curtis said. "I've got you a report on Keri Dyson's life and times which I'll drop by your office later today."

"I don't have an office," Regan said. "Drop it at Abbie Carmichael's house."

"Ms Carmichael," Curtis said. "How is she doing?"

"About seven months pregnant," Regan said.

"No kidding!" Curtis said, sounding pleased. "That's great!"

"Yeah, it is," Regan said. "Mr. Curtis, I really need to know what's going on with this doctor."

"I'm on it," Curtis said, sounding businesslike again. "I have some contacts at the hospital from when I was on the force. I'll reach out to them and see what there is to see."

"Thanks," Regan said. "Oh, and Mr. Curtis – how did you go with the security cameras?"

"No luck," Curtis said. "They're inoperative since the building went to doormen 24/7. I'm going to go back tonight and see if I can talk to the guy who works nights during the week."

"Great," Regan said. "Listen – Keri and Jack caught a cab from the _Lord Roberts_ to his building. I'd like to talk to that cabbie."

"Do you have a hack number?" Curtis asked.

"No."

"Name of the firm?"

"No," Regan said, and heard Curtis sigh. "That's not good, is it?"

"Ms Markham," Curtis said, "Do you have any idea how long it's going to take me to track down one cab driver in all New York City?"

"The rest of your natural life?" Regan asked.

"About that," Curtis said. "How badly do you want to talk to him? Or her, I suppose."

"Not as badly as I want to know what's going on with the hospital records or as badly as I want to talk to the doorman," Regan said.

"Okay," Curtis said. "I'll put it on the list – at the bottom."

Regan thanked him again, and cut the connection.

_Okay_, she thought. _Two things ticked off my to-do list. _

Next _ought_ to be starting to draft her opening arguments for the next day. _But Jack's made it clear he doesn't want me to give one. _

She tried to call him again without success.

_Your partner's lost in the woods, girl, what you gonna do? You gonna leave him to freeze in the dark, or you gonna saddle up? _

When she got to McCoy's apartment, there was no answer when she rang the bell and pounded on the door. When she unlocked the door, it opened only a fraction before jamming fast. Regan ran her fingers along the jamb, trying to see if he had the chain on, and felt the rounded edge of some piece of solid wooden furniture.

She shouldered the door again. "Jack! I know you're in there!"

_Silence_. The door wouldn't budge. She couldn't get her arm far enough through the crack to try and shift whatever he'd used to barricade her out. She shouldered it again, then pounded on the wood with her clenched fist. "Damn it, Jack! I need to talk to you! We're in court tomorrow! Jack!"

She didn't realize how hard she was hitting the door until she saw blood on the paint, took a deep breath and lowered her hand to her side and then impulsively hammered her fist on the wood once more.

"Jack, damn you! Open this fucking door! _Jack_!"

"He's either not there or he doesn't want to talk to you," a voice said from her left.

Regan turned and saw a diminutive old lady glaring at her.

"And if you don't stop doing that, I'm going to call the authorities," the old lady said.

For just about the first time in her adult life, Regan was without a badge to hold up and say _I am the authorities, ma'am. _

"Okay," she said as meekly as she could.

With the old lady watching her, Regan pulled a legal pad and a pen from her briefcase and began writing, hand aching.

_I'll see you in court. 9 am_, she wrote. Her split knuckles left spots of blood on the paper. About to slip the note inside the door she paused, and added: _If you don't turn up I'll haul you there by your hair. And if I get over here and can't get in, I'll call FDNY and tell them I smell smoke_.

She reached as far inside as she could and dropped the note, then pulled the door shut. "Okay?" she said to the old lady, and McCoy's neighbor nodded, satisfied. "I really _do_ need to talk to him," Regan added. "If you see him, will you tell him? My name is Regan Markham."

"I'm Mrs. Louise Farr," the old woman said. "And I'll tell him if I see him, but I doubt it will do any good. Although I haven't seen anyone try _that_ before, so who knows?"

"Seen anyone try _what_?" Regan asked, startled.

"Begging him to take you back," Mrs. Farr said. "Usually _they're_ the ones who storm out."

"I'm not begging him to take me back," Regan said.

"No, you aren't," the old lady said, looking at her shrewdly. "You're begging him to let you in, aren't you? I've seen that. Not usually quite so physically, I must say. They usually try sympathy. And _that_ never works. That's when they start leaving, you know."

_They_? Regan thought. "How long have you lived next door to Jack?" she asked.

"Oh, a long time now. I've been here forty years, you know."

Regan leaned on the wall. "That is a long time," she said. _Interrogation 101_. _If the subject is talking, let them talk. _

"I remember when he moved in, he was such a good-looking young man, and he knew it, too!" The old lady smiled at the memory. "All those girls, well! And then his wife, such a nice girl. And the baby. And then _she_ left and there were more girls – oh, dear, I don't mean to imply that they were _those _kind of girls. And then that nice young woman, Claire."

"Claire Kincaid?" Regan asked.

"Did you know her?"

Regan shook her head.

"Let me tell you, the whole floor knew how well they got on!" Mrs. Farr shook her head. "Well, you can't begrudge young people their happiness. Then – they started arguing. We all heard that, too. The same as it always goes with Mr. McCoy. I thought she'd stop coming around, like the others. And she did."

"Ma'am, Claire Kincaid – " Regan hesitated. "She was in an accident, a very serious accident." The words were familiar from dozens of death-knocks. "Her injuries were very severe and – "

"I know she died, Miss Markham," Mrs. Farr said. "I caught the lift down with Mr. McCoy the day of her funeral." Her face tightened. "Reeking of liquor, that day, every day for years after. Poor man. She used to yell at him, I used to hear her through the walls, _Jack, you say you love me, act like it_! And I used to see him, after – he got so thin, you know – used to hear him stumbling around that apartment in the middle of the night, cursing. If she'd been able to know what losing her would do to him, she would never have had any doubts."

Remembering the shape McCoy had been in when she'd first started working with him, Regan could see the picture Mrs. Farr described all-too-easily. The grey pallor ADAs called 'courtroom tan', the shadowed eyes and slumped shoulders that told of exhaustion no sleep could relieve – _it must have been a thousand times worse for him when Claire died than when Alex was murdered_, Regan thought. She wondered if he had cried for Claire, if there had been anyone to sit with him in the dark hours of the night.

She swallowed past the lump in her throat. "He loved her very much," she said softly. "I know that. Still does, I think." _More than ten years later and when he talked about her in the car on the way back from Carthage it was like, for him, she was __**there**__. _

_From time to time I remember how much I miss her_, he'd said. _She was __**amazing**__. __Very beautiful. And her looks were the least remarkable thing about her. An astonishing woman, smart and idealistic_.

And _It was all I thought about_.

"I don't sleep much," Mrs. Farr said, and Regan blinked at the non-sequitur. "That's what happens when you get to my age, I suppose. I hear him, sometimes. Walking around that apartment at three in the morning. He'd bring women home – still does – even married one of them –but he'd be walking around in the small hours, all the same." The old lady shook her head. "Save your time, Miss Markham. None of them had any better luck that you just did."

"Begging him to let them in?" Regan asked, trying to imagine some of the women McCoy had been paired with by the rumor mill here in the corridor pounding on the door.

"Metaphorically," the old lady said. "If he wasn't going to let that nice Claire Kincaid in, I don't think anyone else is going to have any luck, do you? Not after her."

Regan heard the unspoken message. _She's letting me know_ _I don't come up to the Claire Kincaid standard. _

_Like I didn't know that I'm not Claire Kincaid. _

_Not even close. _

"Probably not, Mrs. Farr," Regan said. "But actually, I need Mr. McCoy to turn up to a court date tomorrow morning. Un-metaphorically."

"He's not one for missing work," Mrs. Farr said. "A good work ethic for that generation."

"You know, you're absolutely right," Regan said. She smiled her best non-committal police-officer smile. "I'm probably worrying about nothing."

"If getting Mr. McCoy to work _is_ what you're worrying about," the old lady said skeptically.

Regan held her gaze. "I'm worried about Mr. McCoy," she said. "Did you hear anything last week, Thursday night? Any kind of commotion?"

"Nothing. You won't save that man from himself," Mrs. Farr said, turning away. "Prettier girls than you have tried." At her own door, the old lady looked back, shaking her head. "Take it from an old, old woman, Miss Markham. I know it's an appealing idea, rescuing the suffering outlaw, seeing who he really is. But it only pans out in the movies."

"Don't worry, Mrs. Farr," Regan said. "I'm not about to save anyone."

_I well aware that I couldn't if I tried._

_

* * *

_

.oOo.

* * *

A/N: If I've entertained, moved, diverted or even just distracted you for a little while, please consider hitting the review button. I put hours and hours and hours into my stories in the hope they'll give a few people a few minutes of fun. Please think about putting a few seconds into letting me know if I've succeeded or not. I've enabled anonymous reviews so that if you're shy, you don't even need to leave your name – or you could PM me, if you don't want to put something in the public arena.


	17. Zealous Prosecution

A/N: Once again, many thanks to RebeccaInley for her sterling work as a beta, and to Lynn46 for her insight.

* * *

**Zealous Prosecution**

* * *

_10__th__ Floor_

_One Hogan Place _

_11 am Wednesday May 9__th__ 2007_

* * *

Connie turned a page, turned it back. _Statements, statements … _

She sighed and pressed two fingers to her temple, trying to avert the headache she could feel just waiting to start.

It wasn't the reading, although there was only so much time a girl could spend pouring over witness statements and police files getting a case ready for trial before she wanted to run screaming down the fire stairs and into the street.

It wasn't the pressure, although this was probably the fastest she'd ever moved from arraignment to trial.

It was the case.

She just didn't like the case.

And when she said _like_, she didn't mean it the way she'd mean it if she thought _I don't like vanilla ice-cream. _Connie had spent enough time in the company of police officers since starting at the DA's Office for their habits of speech to have rubbed off on her, even in the privacy of her own head.

So when she rubbed her forehead again and thought _I just don't like this case_, it wasn't an expression of personal preference. It was a considered professional opinion that carried the same implication as a detective turning to a colleague and saying _Yeah, I don't like the husband for this, I think his alibi is gonna check out. _

_I don't like this case. I don't think it should have got past the Complaints Room. _

Well, maybe that was unfair. A woman with a black eye and a split lip, a doctor's report and absolutely no hesitation about naming her attacker: any ADA in the Complaints Room would have filled in the paperwork and got the DA's investigators working on it.

It was the next step that Connie baulked at – escalating straight from complaint to arraignment without a pause for breath.

She shook her head, rubbed her temple again.

"Something wrong?" Mike Cutter asked from her doorway.

"A few gaps here," Connie said, choosing her words carefully.

"Such as?" He came further into her office and propped himself against the wall, hands in his pockets.

"We've got statements from the ADAs who were there at the _Lord Roberts_ that night – well, except from Markham and from me, of course."

Cutter looked at his shoes, frowning in thought. "What do you know about Regan Markham?"

"Not much," Connie said, truthful but evasive. "She's been on the tenth floor since last September, working with McCoy. Fraud before that. Solid record, nothing spectacular."

"Then why the rapid promotion?" Cutter asked.

"It was …" Connie started, and then stopped. She could tell Cutter the truth – that McCoy had burned through every ADA in the Trials Bureaus the summer after Alex Borgia was murdered, herself included. _I worked one case with him and there wasn't enough money in the world to entice me to work another_. "It was a time when Jack McCoy was working with a lot of different people," she said at last. "I guess looking for the right fit. Markham… " she shrugged. "Markham must have been it."

"And _you_ weren't," Cutter said. "Must have burned you, to be turned down, given your conviction record."

"It was my decision," Connie said.

"Because?"

"Because none-of-your-business_,_" Connie said.

"Now come on, Connie," Cutter said. "Is it relevant to the trial? Did he try to put the moves on you like he did with Dyson? Did he – I hear he has a temper, did he – "

"No, and no, and no!" Connie said. "Listen, as far as I could tell, Jack McCoy had no idea I was even female when I worked that trial. I know his reputation, and I know _you_ know it, but there wasn't even a hint of anything inappropriate." She paused, and went on in a more measured tone, "Yes, he has a temper. And it was a bad time for him. How would you be if one of your ADA's got beaten to a pulp and shoved in a car trunk to die? Jack was – hard to deal with. I wasn't Alex Borgia, and that meant I was never going to be good enough to sit in his second chair, and he made it perfectly clear that was what he thought from the second I walked into his office."

"But not when it came to Markham."

"You'd have to ask _her_," Connie said. "I know half the tenth floor has heard them shouting at each other at one time or another. But they work well together."

"Hmmm," Cutter said. "And now she's defending him. Hey, do you think we should get her off the case? She's a witness, well, kind of, I can subpoena her as one, and then she can't act as his lawyer and – "

"Is she legitimately a witness?" Connie said, "To anything other than what I or half a dozen other people saw?"

"Does that matter?" Cutter asked. "If they're some kind of double-act, it'd have to throw him off balance to get a new attorney the day before opening statements."

Connie sighed. "Mike, this rush to trial – rush to _judgment_ – it doesn't sit well with me anyway. Aren't we playing hard enough hard-ball without dirty tricks?"

"_Dirty tricks_ are just what losers call winning trial tactics," Cutter said.

"Maybe in your playbook," Connie said.

"And this is my case," he reminded her sharply.

"Fine," Connie said. "So you want me to draft a subpoena?"

"No," Cutter said. "I do want to know more about Jack McCoy, though. You're right – we are rushing to trial. I want to know more about our defendant – what makes him tick – so I can explain his actions to the jury."

"Okay," Connie said. She hesitated, then took the opening. "Mike, don't you think we need a better idea of what his actions _were_?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, our whole case is based on Keri Dyson being one hundred percent truthful and one hundred percent accurate. How often does that happen?"

Cutter raised his eyebrows. "Just about never," he said. "Good point, Connie. Get the investigators busy – make sure of it. Cover all the bases."

"I'll do it myself," Connie promised.

She made a quick time-line of Keri Dyson's statement and put an asterisk next to what needed to be confirmed. _Time of leaving bar, taxi ride to McCoy's apartment, time of arrival, time she left … _

A thought struck Connie. _She said she paid for the cab_, she thought. _Wonder if she paid cash?_

_I wonder if Keri's the sort of ADA to cut corners when it comes to office lurks and perks?_

Instead of calling one of the investigators, Connie called Colleen Petraky.

"Is there any way to check who used cab vouchers on a particular day?" she asked the chief office administrator.

"Of course," Colleen said, sounding surprised. "They all come back to us, you know, for accounting and acquittal, and get scanned in."

"Did Keri Dyson use one last Thursday night?" Connie asked.

There was a little pause on the line. "Look, Ms Rubirosa," Colleen said at last. "I understand you're doing your job. But I think that if you want to look through the records you're going to need to do like you would for any other office, and get a judge to authorize you."

"Colleen, don't hang up!" Connie said quickly. "I _am_ doing my job – the part of my job that is to make sure there's a reason for prosecution. I'm not – " She glanced around to make sure no-one was standing by her open door, and then lowered her voice and cupped her hand around the receiver. "I'm not out to hang Jack, whatever you've heard."

"_You_ might not be," Colleen said. "But you're not the only one whose opinion counts in this, are you?"

"I'm not. But I am the only one who's on his side. So help me out, Colleen. Did Keri use a cab voucher that night?"

"Hold on," Colleen said. Connie heard her keyboard in the background. "Yes. At 8.37 that night."

"Right after they left the bar," Connie said. "Does it say where from and to?"

"No," Colleen said. "Just the area. But maybe the cab driver would remember."

"Maybe," Connie said with a sigh. "Give me the name of the company and I'll start interviewing drivers."

"Oh, I can do better than that," Colleen said, a smile in her voice. "His hack number is right here on the form."

"Colleen Petraky," Connie said fervently, "You are my favorite person in the whole world."

* * *

.oOo.

* * *

A/N: You know who my favorite people are? People who leave reviews!


	18. Prosecutorial Responsibility

**

* * *

**

**Prosecutorial Responsibility**

* * *

_Office of Cabfair Inc_

_466 W 51st St_

_1 pm Wednesday May 9__th__ 2007_

* * *

"I appreciate you coming in to talk to me, Mr. Rodriguez," Connie said.

The cab driver shrugged. "I don't want no trouble," he said. "I am legal. I have no problem with the police. And I don't want to _have_ problem, you know? I have two girls, they do good in school, maybe one of them grows up to be a lady lawyer like you, if I don't have a problem and everything goes okay. So here I am."

"You won't have a problem," Connie assured him. "Mr. Rodriguez, I am with the District Attorney's Office here in Manhattan. I am investigating a crime that was committed last Thursday night. You picked up a fare that night, around a quarter to ten?"

"I picked up a lot of fares," Rodriguez said, and shrugged. "Quarter to nine, quarter to ten, who knows?"

"Okay," Connie said, "But according to the records here, and according to the cab voucher, you picked up this particular fare at 8.37pm, just near the _Lord Roberts_ in Manhattan."

"Cab voucher, yes," he said. "I remember that one, it was the only voucher fare I had that night. And I thought, nice for some, eh? To go out and get drunk and have your work pay for you to get driven home."

"Can you tell me about it?" Connie asked.

"They were two, two people, a man and a woman," he said. "A little woman, hair kinda red, nice looking. And he was older, maybe fifty? And she was okay, but he was totally out of it. I didn't want to pick them up. You know, you pick up drunks, they throw up on your seats, on the floor, sometimes they piss themselves, and who has to pay for the cleaning? I do, that's who."

"But you _did_ pick them up?" Connie prompted.

"Yes. The woman, she said she would pay if the man was sick, she let me hold a fifty to prove she was good for it. He was hardly able to stand up, she had to push him into the cab, and he passed out right away. Must have been some party!"

"Where did you take them?" Connie asked.

"Just like the log says," Rodriguez said. "I don't remember the address. An apartment building in Manhattan."

Connie looked down at the log and read the address out to him, the address she had confirmed as Jack McCoy's with a phone-call to Colleen Petraky.

"If that's what it says," Rodriguez said. "I remember I check it when I call it in. I don't remember what it was. But I know it's right."

"Okay. And that was at ten past nine," Connie said. "Did you see them go into the building?"

"_See_ them?" Rodriguez said, and snorted. "Lady, he was so far gone I have to help the girl _carry_ him inside. I told her she should think about getting him to the hospital. You know, drunk is one thing, but when a man can't even open his eyes with a lady slapping his face to wake him up, well … Is that why you're here? Did something happen to him?"

"Something happened," Connie said vaguely. "So you helped the woman carry him into the building?"

"And then the doorman took over and I went back to my cab," Rodriguez said.

"Mr. Rodriguez, do you think you could recognize them again?' Connie said. "I mean, if you saw them?"

"Like a line-up?" Rodriguez said. "Sure. I got a good look at the two of them. And I have a good memory for faces."

"Okay," Connie said. "Someone will be in touch with you, Mr. Rodriguez, to arrange a time for you to look at some photographs. They'll come to you, at a time that suits you, so you won't need to lose any time working, okay?"

"Okay," Rodriguez said. "Are you going to tell me what she did, this girl? She didn't look like the kind."

Connie paused. "What do you mean? And why do you think _she_ did something?"

"That man, he was dead to the world. What, you want me to think he maybe robbed a bank or something in his sleep? Maybe I should have – well, but the doorman was there, you know, and what should I do? She didn't look like she was going to rob him or nothing. I mean, you hear about that, the hookers? But she didn't look like a hooker. I just thought they were a couple having a nice night out that maybe got too nice for him, right?"

"It was a reasonable assumption," Connie reassured him. "No-one thinks you were at fault."

"Okay," Rodriguez said. "Because, I don't need to have – "

"A problem, right," Connie said.

On her way to McCoy's apartment building Connie called the Investigator's unit, gave them Rodriguez's details and asked for him to be shown a photo-array including pictures of Jack McCoy and Keri Dyson.

_Probably unnecessary_, she thought as she dropped her phone back in her handbag. She didn't have any doubt that the couple Rodriguez had picked up had been McCoy and Dyson. The cab voucher was confirmation enough. _Pays to be thorough, though_.

As she hurried up the steps to the front door of McCoy's building, Connie was taken aback to see McCoy come out of the door. She paused, trying to decide whether or not she should turn around and hope he didn't see her or just brazen it out. While she was hesitating, McCoy looked up and their eyes met.

He stopped dead. "Ms Rubirosa," he said formally. Connie thought he looked almost as exhausted as he had when they had worked together the previous summer.

"Mr. McCoy," Connie said. He was above her on the steps and she had to tilt her head back to look at him.

"Do you have papers?" he asked her, and Connie realized he assumed she was there to serve a subpoena.

"No," she hurried to reassure him. "No – I – " It would be completely inappropriate for her to discuss the case with him.

"You can't tell me," McCoy said, nodding. "I assume you're here to talk to my neighbors? Or along those lines? If you are, I can tell you that I plan to be out for half-an-hour. Is that enough time for you, or would you prefer me to take a few turns around the block?"

"No, Mr. McCoy, you don't need to – " Connie said quickly. "I can do my job whether you're here or not – "

"I'm sure you can," McCoy said. He came down the steps towards her and she turned to let him past. "But I've always found it easier to talk to neighbors, family members, when the suspect or the defendant is out of the way."

Connie nodded. He had passed her when she called out impulsively: "Mr. McCoy!" He turned. "I didn't ask for this case, I wanted you to know, I didn't ask for it."

He smiled, and Connie thought he was trying to be charming, but his eyes were bleak. "You should have, Connie. It's a career-maker."

She watched him walk away down the street, the same purposeful stride she'd seen around the office and the courthouse on many occasions. He had a buff envelope under his arm and she wondered where he was going.

_You've got more relevant things to wonder_, Connie reminded herself, and hurried inside.

The doorman was helpful but useless. No, he hadn't been working that night. Yes, of course he could give her the name of the man who _had_ been rostered on – but he doubted it would do her any good. Joe (that was his name, Joe Evatt) had called in on Monday to say he wouldn't be back for a while. Sure, Connie could have his address and phone number – but no-one had been able to get an answer from him that week. The phone just rang and rang. No, Joe didn't have a cell phone. He thought they caused –

Connie cut off the discussion of what Joe Evatt thought was caused by cell phone radiation and whether or not it might be true. She tried his number from her own cell phone, radiation be damned, and got no answer.

_What now?_

She checked her watch. She had time to talk to McCoy's neighbors.

Neither Louise Farr on one side of McCoy nor Ben Kelly on the other had heard anything on the night in question.

"And I would have, dear," Mrs. Farr added. "Not that I stand up against the wall with a glass to my ear, but you know how it is in apartments."

"Sure," Connie said, nodding.

"I mean, I could tell you the names of every woman he's brought home, probably," Mrs. Farr said. "So when I say, there wasn't any commotion, you can believe me."

Connie nodded again, thinking to herself, _Problem is, I do. _

_I do believe you. _

_But will Mike Cutter? _

* * *

.oOo.

* * *


	19. Dress Rehearsal

A/N: Once again, thanks to RebeccaInley for her beta read, and to Lynn46 for her helpful comments. Their assistance has been invaluable. Any remaining errors are my own.

**Dress Rehearsal**

_

* * *

_

_Supreme Court Building_

_8 pm Wednesday May 9__th__ 2007_

* * *

Regan climbed the stairs to the courthouse and turned left at the colonnades to the after-hours entrance. She gave her name to the security guard and waited while he called it in.

Her head ached. She and Danielle Melnick and Nora Lewin had spent hours working on her opening statement for the next morning – _an opening statement I still haven't persuaded Jack to let me give _– until Rey Curtis had dropped off his background research on Keri Dyson. Danielle had left to go through Keri's history and background while Nora and Regan to kept working.

Regan had drafted opening and closing arguments for McCoy before – _first_ drafts, setting out the facts and the law of the case, to which McCoy had then added the polish and the drama, the indefinable Jack-McCoy-touch.

_Impossible to define, and, at least as far as __**I'm**__ concerned, impossible to replicate. _

"You're good to go through, Ms Markham," the security guard said, breaking in to her stream of thought. "Do you know where you're going?"

"Yes," Regan said.

Once inside, though, she thought that maybe she should have asked for directions after all. The courthouse looked different at night, with the windows showing the city lights and the overhead lights switched off. It was disorienting enough for her to miss the right staircase and have to backtrack, but when she gave up looking around and let her feet take her on autopilot , she soon found herself standing in the right corridor.

Danielle Melnick was already there, and Regan saw Nora Lewin coming toward them from the other direction with a slim woman with short brown hair, dressed casually in jeans and a T-shirt.

"Regan," Nora said as the four of them converged at a closed courtroom door. "I'd like to introduce you to Jamie Ross."

"Judge Ross," Regan said, holding out her hand.

"I'm _Jamie_," Jamie Ross said, taking Regan's hand in a firm grip. "At least, at this hour of the night I am."

"We appreciate your help, Jamie," Danielle said.

Jamie took a bunch of keys from her pocket and turned to the courtroom door. "Well, _I'd_ appreciate it if you didn't appreciate it too publicly, if you know what I mean." She unlocked the door and pushed it open.

"Are you going to get jammed up over this?" Regan asked apprehensively.

"It wouldn't look good on my resume, put it that way," Jamie said, and then shrugged. "But it's hardly a hanging offence."

The others followed Jamie Ross into the empty courtroom.

"I'll leave you," Jamie said. "I'll be in my chambers. Let me know when you're done so I can lock up."

As she left, Regan turned to Danielle. "Why _is_ she taking this kind of risk to help us?"

"She's helping Jack," Danielle said. "You know she used to have your job?"

"Jamie _Ross_," Regan said. "Of course. I'd forgotten." As the courtroom door opened and Sally Bell came in with a young woman Regan didn't recognize, Regan said to Danielle: "There's a lot of goodwill toward Jack, isn't there?"

"And a lot of _ill_-will," Danielle said dryly. "Regan, this is Susan Kawoski. She's a drama student at Hudson. I've hired her to play the part of Keri Dyson this evening."

"Hello," Regan said. Susan Kawoski didn't look a lot like Keri Dyson – she was slim, with close-cropped dark hair and slightly Oriental features.

"Hi," Susan said.

"Susan has signed a contract. She's legally part of the defense, covered by privilege, and understands the importance of confidentiality. I've used her for this kind of work before," Danielle said. "Susan, why don't you go and sit in the front row until we're ready for you."

"I'll be your second chair," Sally said to Regan, going to the defense table. "When Serena gets here – "

"I'm here," Serena said from the door, a little breathlessly.

"How'd you go with Dr Jordan?" Regan asked.

"I have a deposition," Serena said, striding down the aisle and dropping her briefcase on the prosecution table. "Dr Jordan hasn't even been in Manhattan since 2005, and then only for a visit. Last Thursday night he was on an overnight shift at Baltimore General, with about ten colleagues and assorted patients, nurses, and EMTs able to establish he couldn't possibly have nipped up to New York to treat Keri Dyson. He has no idea how his signature got on that medical report."

"Someone forged his signature?" Danielle asked.

"Well, if they did," Serena said, "We'll find out. I got him to sign his name about a hundred times and I also got notarized copies of papers he's signed over the past few years under different circumstances. We can get them compared to the copies of the report we got through discovery."

"I have a good lab we can use," Danielle said. "I'll drop them off first thing in the morning."

Serena nodded. "Okay," she said. "So, I'm the prosecution?"

"That's right," Nora said. Regan turned to see that the former DA had climbed up to sit in the judge's chair.

"And I'm the jury," Danielle said, opening the gate to the jury box. She chose a chair in the middle of the front row and settled herself in it with a legal pad in her lap. "Are you ready, Regan?"

Regan swallowed hard and nodded. She walked to the defense table and sat down in the chair nearest the aisle, the chair she'd sit in tomorrow.

"You'll be fine," Sally murmured encouragingly.

"You won't be here tomorrow," Regan said.

"I'm in court," Sally said.

"And Jack won't agree to a second lawyer at the table," Regan said.

_It'll just be me – and him. _

_And he's as much of a problem as Michael Cutter. _

A sudden wave of panic made her stomach cramp and her hands sweat.

Regan took a deep breath and pushed it aside. _You're a lawyer_, _act like one,_ McCoy had said to her once, the very first bit of advice he had ever given her. _Lesson one, Ms Markham. _

Serena was on her feet, opening her case, her measured steady voice setting out the allegations against McCoy. Regan envied her composure. What had McCoy said to her in the car on the way back from Carthage? _Don't sell yourself short – defense lawyers can sense uncertainty. _

She could almost hear his slightly hoarse voice saying the words, almost feel his hand covering hers.

_Juries and prosecutors, too_, Regan thought. She took a deep breath, pushing aside her nagging worries about the next day and her stomach-clenching awareness of how miserably inadequate she was to the task ahead. _Think like a lawyer, just like Jack told you that you had to after Conroy confessed to the Walker murder. Think like a lawyer, act like a lawyer, don't show uncertainty._

For the first time, sitting in the courtroom as first chair, without Jack McCoy's considerable experience and expertise between her and any major mistakes, Regan realized how much of his advice had been preparing her for the courtroom, rather than the other aspects of a prosecutor's workload that she more usually handled.

_You never get the ideal circumstances in a courtroom, Regan. Your job is to work with what you have. Winning is everything in the courtroom. __Justice is the by-product of winning. _

Once she had lived her life by the lessons of an old man's hard-won wisdom, a life-time on the force distilled down to rules for Regan to live by. _Stand by your partner. Keep your head in the game. _But her world had turned.

She had new rules to add now, new lessons.

_Winning is everything. _

Rules as ill-built for the quotidian as any of her great-grandfather's lawman lessons, but that would equally well suit her to do her job, if only she could follow them closely enough.

Serena finished her statement and sank back into her chair.

Regan took a deep breath and rose to her feet.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury," she began, hoping no-one else could hear the slight quaver in her voice, "this case is a classic test of the age-old legal principle 'innocent until proven guilty'."

They had argued about this, she and Danielle and Nora. _We have to do more than put the prosecution to proof! _Regan had said. '_Not proven' might be an acquittal but not in the court of public opinion!_

Danielle had been firm. _We don't have any proof for an alternate theory of the crime_, she'd insisted. _If you preview it for the jury in your opening, and we can't turn anything up, your credibility will be shot. But if we do find anything, the discovery of new evidence __**during**__ the trial gives you reason to change tack – legal reason, but more importantly, a reason the jury will believe. They'll listen to you say 'Your honor, we only just found this witness', and they'll think 'She always knew he was innocent but she's only just found the proof'. So open with 'innocent until proven guilty'. Open with the weakness in the prosecution case. Open with their inability to prove that Jack's guilty. If we can do more later, if we can prove that he's innocent and not just 'not guilty', we will. But until we can prove it … _

Regan had yielded to Danielle's vastly greater experience. Now, as she recited the words the three of them had drafted that afternoon, the phrases felt dead and empty in her mouth.

When she finished she looked around to see the others' reactions. There was a moment of silence.

"Well," Danielle said at last, "We can work on that some more tomorrow morning."

Regan nodded, and went back to her seat.

Serena rose to her feet. "The People call Keri Dyson."

It was standard operating procedure, in a crime with a living victim, for the prosecution to open with their chief witness. It gave the crime an immediate human face for the jury to identify with. _And it gives me an immediate problem_, Regan thought as the young actress playing 'Keri Dyson' walked to the stand. _We haven't had enough time to find out anything that might impeach her. Even a few days could give us that opportunity. But tomorrow …_

Serena as the 'prosecutor' took 'Keri' through her testimony, the actress sticking closely to the actual statement and deposition Keri Dyson had made. Serena was an experienced attorney, and her questions didn't give Regan grounds to object. She jumped to her feet a few times anyway, trying to break the flow of 'Keri's' testimony. _Objection – asked and answered. Objection – calls for speculation. Objection – calls for a conclusion. Objection – irrelevant. Objection – lack of foundation. _

'Judge' Nora Lewin overruled her each time.

Then it was her turn.

Regan gathered her thoughts. _Need to destroy her credibility._ She didn't have much to do it with.

"Ms Dyson, you've testified that you and Mr. McCoy travelled from the _Lord Roberts _to his apartment by taxi, is that correct?" she asked.

"Yes," 'Keri' answered.

"And that Mr. McCoy seemed somewhat intoxicated?"

"Yes."

"What do you mean by 'somewhat' intoxicated?" Regan asked.

"I mean, he seemed to be under the influence of alcohol," 'Keri' said.

"More than could be explained by the number of drinks he'd consumed?"

"Objection, your honor," Serena said calmly. "The witness has no way of knowing the defendant's tolerance for alcohol."

"Sustained," Nora said.

_Damn_. Regan looked down at her notes. "You told the court that on reaching Mr. McCoy's apartment, you assisted him upstairs?"

"Yes."

"Because he was so intoxicated that he couldn't use the elevator by himself?"

"Because he asked me," 'Keri' said, "And I was concerned."

"Because he was extremely intoxicated?" Regan asked quickly.

"No. Because I was concerned," 'Keri' said.

"And when you got to Mr. McCoy's apartment, who unlocked the door?" Regan asked.

"He did," 'Keri' said.

Regan bit her lip. _If she'd said that she did I could try again to get her to admit that he was far more drunk than three drinks could explain_.

"At the bar, you were observed engaging in behavior of an intimate nature with Mr. McCoy," she began, trying a different tack.

"Objection – counsel is testifying," Serena said.

"Sustained," Nora said.

"Ms Dyson, would it surprise you to know that others at the bar are prepared to testify that you were observed engaging in behavior of an intimate nature?" Regan tried.

"I'm never surprised by what people say," 'Keri' responded smoothly.

"Were you, in fact, engaging in such behavior?"

"I'm not sure what you mean by 'intimate'," 'Keri' said.

"Quote: They were all over each other like teenagers," Regan said.

"Objection, facts not in evidence," Serena said.

"I am prepared to table depositions from witnesses," Regan said. _Or, I will be, if Serena gets them in time tomorrow morning. _

"The People have had no notice of these depositions," Serena said.

"Are your witnesses prepared to testify?" Nora asked Regan.

"Yes, your honor," Regan said.

"Then call them to the stand at the appropriate time," Nora said.

"I have the right to impeach this witness," Regan protested.

"Not by trying to slip untested allegations in as statements of fact. Move on, counselor."

"Ms Dyson, would it surprise you to learn that the doctor whose signature appears on the medical file you gave to the prosecution as evidence of your assault does not work at the hospital where you were treated?"

"Yes," 'Keri' said.

"Do you have any explanation for how your chart was signed by a doctor who has been working in Baltimore for more than five years?"

"I can't explain it," 'Keri' said. "I didn't ask the doctor to see his driver's license or whatever. Do you check ID when you go to the ER?"

"Isn't it the truth, Ms Dyson, that you weren't treated at Mercy ER at all?" Regan asked, trying to imitate Jack McCoy's quick pounce on a witness's inconsistencies. _  
_

'Keri' was unmoved. "I was treated there," she said.

And no matter what tack Regan tried, the young actress playing Keri Dyson remained sure of her story. Regan tried to hammer a wedge into every potential crack in the allegations Keri Dyson had made, her head beginning to swim with questions and answers, objections and rulings.

After a while she felt as if she had been on her feet, in this courtroom, with this witness, for days rather than hours. _Ms Dyson, isn't it the case … Objection – inflammatory. Sustained. Ms Dyson, how do you explain … Objection – Calls for speculation. Sustained. Ms Dyson, isn't the jury entitled to wonder … Objection – asked and answered. Sustained. Ms Dyson, you were seen … Objection – counsel is testifying again. Sustained. Ms Dyson, you bought Mr. McCoy several drinks … Objection – perhaps counsel would like to take the stand herself? _

"That's enough," Danielle said at last.

Regan sank into her seat at the defense table, knees trembling. Her shirt was drenched with sweat, sticking to her skin beneath her suit.

"Thank you, Susan," Danielle said. "Would you wait outside in the hall for a few minutes? I'll walk you out when we're done here."

"Sure," Susan Kawoski said, stepping down from the witness stand.

Danielle waited until the courtroom doors had closed behind the young woman before saying: "Comments, anyone?"

"I don't know where to start," Sally Bell muttered beside Regan.

Regan felt her stomach clench. "I know that I was terrible," she said defensively.

"You weren't terrible," Serena said. "You had a tough job."

"It's always a little bit different with an actor," Danielle said, stepping down from the jury box. "If the witness they're playing lied, the actor doesn't know about it. They don't make the same mistakes, or show the same signs of stress when they're lying."

"Keri Dyson is an experienced attorney, though," Nora said, joining Danielle in the well of the court. "She won't be an easy witness to wrong-foot."

"I'll do better," Regan said.

"You'll need to," Sally said bluntly. "Don't look at me like that, Danielle. It's true. This is Jack's _life_ we're talking about.

"We'll be in better shape tomorrow," Danielle said brusquely. "Regan, spin out jury selection as long as you can. Serena will track down those witnesses and get the depositions we need. I'll get you the report on Dr Jordan's signature. We've already got his deposition – whoever signed that chart, it wasn't him. You'll have more ammunition, a lot more, when you get Dyson on the stand."

"I'll need it," Regan said quietly. "Won't I?"

None of them answered her, but their faces told her everything she needed to know.

* * *

.oOo.

* * *

A/N: If you're wondering what Regan is referring to when she remembers McCoy's advice to her, she is thinking back to conversations they have had in earlier stories.


	20. Reckless Endangerment

A/N: Once again, thanks to RebeccaInley for her painstaking work as a beta, and to Lynn for support, encouragement and insight.

* * *

**Reckles****s Endangerment**

* * *

_Trial Part 3_

_Supreme Court 100 Centre St _

_9.30 am Thursday May 10__th__ 2007_

_

* * *

_

Regan sat with her hands folded in front of her, listening to the judge charge the prospective jurors. She felt as if she could feel the stares of the crowd in the body of the courtroom like a bull's-eye painted between her shoulder-blades.

_They aren't looking at you,_ she chided herself, resisting the urge to turn around and make sure. _If they're looking at anyone, they're looking at the judge. _

_Or at Jack. _

Nonetheless, she felt the presence of the crowd as a pressure against her back. Some were journalists, some were looky-loos, some were friends or enemies of Jack McCoy. Together, they filled the seats and benches behind the bar.

_It's standing room only back there_, Regan thought.

_And if it makes me nervous, how does Jack feel?_

_How many of those people are here hoping to see him go down? _

_Focus, girl! Your partner needs you to have your head in the game. _

Regan looked back to the list of questions for the _voir dire_ in front of her, most of them going to the same two points – had they or anyone they were close to ever been the victim of a crime like the one at issue here? And had they or anyone they were close to ever been prosecuted by Jack McCoy?

The written questionnaires would flush out those honest about those key facts. Regan hoped her carefully drafted questions would flush out the others. She would have liked another, more experienced trial lawyer beside her, someone whose judgment she could rely on – but Danielle was across town having Dr Jordan's signatures examined by experts, Serena was chasing the ADAs like Qiao Chen and Bill Fitzgerald who had been at the _Lord Roberts_ that night, Sally was in court representing her _own_ clients, and Nora had admitted to Regan as she took a seat in the front row behind the defense that it had been fifteen years since she'd been in a courtroom to represent a client.

Regan stole a glance at the lawyer who _was_ sitting beside her, a trial lawyer whose experience dwarfed not only her own but most of the lawyers she'd ever met, whose keen judgment and mastery of courtroom tactics had resulted in wins against impossible odds. Jack McCoy was looking straight ahead, his face set, and Regan sighed. She couldn't expect any help from him.

_At least he's here_.

McCoy had turned up at the courthouse as the clock struck nine, and as Regan had watched him stride up the steps toward her she had been visited by the sudden irrational conviction that the past week had been nothing more than a nightmare, that McCoy would head past her to the courthouse doors and she would fall into step beside him, fielding his question about their witnesses for the day …

For just an instant, relief washed over her, sweet as a cool breeze on an August day. Then McCoy looked up and saw her waiting. His face was bleak, and Regan thought that the coldness in his eyes chilled another few degrees when he saw her. The illusion of relief vanished. _This is real. This is happening_.

He had responded in monosyllables when she spoke to him, not looking at her. It was clear that as far as he was concerned the argument they had had on Tuesday night was still ongoing. With neither the time nor the privacy to try again to talk some sense into him, Regan had concentrated on getting them both into the courtroom on time and making it clear to McCoy that she was going to take jury selection seriously, _voir dire_, challenges and all.

She stole another glance at him. Usually McCoy was the picture of relaxation in the courtroom, completely at home, leaning back in his chair with one arm resting casually on the bar. Today he sat bolt upright, eyes fixed straight ahead, his hands folded on the table. _No, definitely no help there_.

The jury filled in their questionnaires and the clerk gave copies to Mike Cutter and Connie Rubirosa, and to Regan. She began to separate them into piles, stacking the ones she would challenge for cause together on one side of the table and ranking the rest, the ones she was most concerned about on top.

It was only mid-morning but Regan already felt exhausted. She'd woken before dawn out of a confused dream of _gunfire _in One Hogan Place and _screaming _from outside her office door and _Help me, El, help me, it hurts, oh god, it hurts … _

She'd spent an hour writing a list of all the questions they needed to have answers for if they had any hope of winning the case. _Is Dr Jordan's signature forged? Was it Keri who drugged Jack's drink? _Usually Regan found the exercise calming, breaking the case down into manageable inquiries, steps that she had to take to get it trial-ready for McCoy, but that was when she had time to find the answers. This morning, she had been left with a churning stomach and a list of things she couldn't even begin to guess the answers to.

After a few minutes staring at the questions she'd listed, Regan had picked up her pen again, and added: _What the hell is wrong with Jack McCoy?_

She had stared at the question as if the words would dissolve and reform in the shape of an answer until the doorbell had told her Danielle Melnick had arrived to try and knock her opening statement into better shape.

That redrafted speech was tucked at the back of her file, ready for her to refresh her memory after jury selection.

Regan put another questionnaire into the 'no' pile, and glanced again at McCoy. _Not that there's any indication I'm likely to need that opening statement. _

She stretched out the jury selection process as long as she could, using every second of the time allotted to _voire dire_, pondering her challenges, both for cause and peremptory, until Judge Wright's tapping fingers let her know that any advantage she gained through delay was likely to be negated by annoying the judge.

As the judge gave his pre-trial instructions to the empanelled jurors, Regan glanced over her shoulder to catch Nora's eye. As she did she saw Danielle Melnick slip in through the back door of the court, expression grim.

Danielle slipped into the front row beside Nora, who moved along a little to make room for her.

Regan leaned back over the bar and whispered: "What have you got?"

"Not great news," Danielle answered, equally softly. "The experts are ninety percent positive that it's Rob Jordan's signature on the copy of that chart. Either he's lying to us or there's some other explanation."

"He has dozens of witnesses," Regan said. "Do you think he's lying?"

"I think that Serena needs to get back on the train and ask those witnesses if Dr Jordan really _was_ in Baltimore General that night," Danielle said. "And I think that I'd like to have the originals of those records examined."

"Ms Markham," Judge Wright said, and Regan whipped round to face the front of the court again.

"Sorry, your honor," she said hastily.

Wright acknowledged her apology with a nod. "Mr. Cutter," he said. "Are you ready to proceed?"

Mike Cutter rose to his feet. "Yes, your honor," he said.

Regan hastily pulled a legal pad toward her and grabbed a pen, ready to take notes of the points Cutter would make in his opening, points she would need to be ready to rebut – or at least confuse. Her mind was whirling. _How can Dr Jordan's signature be on a chart he never signed?_ She would have to strike out the part of her prepared opening that foreshadowed the defense discrediting the medical report, since she couldn't be sure that they would, in fact, be able to discredit it. _And that means we don't have much to impeach Keri Dyson … _

Cutter was talking, and Regan forced herself to put aside her worries and concentrate.

"You know, I joined the District Attorney's Office for a lot of reasons," Cutter said. His tone was conversational, his bearing relaxed. _I'm just a regular guy_, Regan wrote on her pad. "The pay's not great, but the health plan is excellent," Cutter went on with a grin. Regan saw three of the jurors smile back. _Oh, shit_, she wrote. "But there was one thing about this job that really sold me." Cutter let his smile drop away, looking from one juror to the next. "When someone in this city is mugged, or beaten – when a child is hurt, a shopkeeper robbed, a woman raped – there's one place they turn to for justice. The DA's Office. We don't chase criminals down the street, and we don't investigate crimes and arrest people – but we are the ones who stand here in the courtroom and fight for rights of the victims to have their pain recognized, and to have the wrong that was done to them repaid with justice."

Cutter shrugged a little, then put his hands in his pockets. "That's a lot of responsibility. Sometimes I look around my office, at all the files that represent victims who depend on me to get them justice, and I really feel the weight of them, you know? I wonder how arrogant he must have been, that young lawyer called Michael Cutter, to think he was really the best person qualified person to be the one they all depend on." Cutter smiled ruefully. Regan, already beginning to rise from her seat to object, saw jurors returning his smile. _They like him_, she thought_, don't make them chose between us, not yet. _She sank back silently.

Cutter shook his head, taking a step backwards, growing serious again. "But ladies and gentlemen, I can tell you one thing. I come in here and I do my best, my very best, for every victim, against every perpetrator. I joined the DA's Office because I wanted to be on the side of the good guys. I wanted to be one of the men and women who stand up for the law, stand up for the victims, stand up for the people of this city. That's what it says on the indictment, by the way. It doesn't say 'District Attorney against So-and-So' or 'Prosecution against What's-his-name'. It says 'People against Jack McCoy'. I'm here to represent the People – people like you, who just want to go along living their lives without being robbed, or threatened, or T-boned by a drunk driver – or attacked. And when I joined the DA's Office, I knew I was joining people who were just as committed, just as dedicated, to the law, to justice, as I was."

Cutter paused, shoulders slumping, sorrow on his face.

"Or so I thought. But this week, I learned that not _everyone_ in our office was committed and dedicated to the law, to justice. I learned – "

"Objection, your honor," Regan said, trying to make her voice even and moderate, the voice of sweet reason rather than sounding like an angry lawyer beating up on that nice Mr. Cutter. "Counsel's opinion – "

"Sustained," Judge Wright said. "Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, Mr. Cutter's personal opinion of this case is not relevant, and not the appropriate subject of an opening statement. Please disregard it. Mr. Cutter, please limit yourself to the prosecution's case, not how it makes you _feel_."

"Your honor, this case – this defendant – the way it strikes at the heart of the people's trust in justice – " Cutter tried again.

"Your honor?" Regan said.

"Sustained. Mr. Cutter." Wright glared at the prosecutor, who shrugged his shoulders and spread his hands in defeat.

"Well, let's look at the case," he said to the jury, his tone adding _since the judge won't let me tell you the real story_. "The case I'm bringing before you here today is one that I never thought I'd have to argue. The defendant, Mr. McCoy, has been a colleague of mine, has been a prosecutor in this jurisdiction for more than thirty years. Has been one of those you depend on to _uphold_ the law. But, as I will prove to you through the course of this trial, Mr. McCoy's apparent commitment to the principles and values that guide the representatives of the People was not as deep or as solid as we all thought. On Thursday last week, Mr. McCoy attended a collegial gathering of prosecutors at a local bar. He left that gathering with one of the young ADAs he is responsible for supervising. You will hear evidence that this is not – "

"Objection!" Regan snapped, forgetting to make her voice appropriately gentle. "Mr. Cutter is referring to inadmissible – "

"Your honor hasn't ruled on admissibility," Cutter said reasonably.

"If you had notified defense at discovery of your intent to pursue this line of argument," Regan retorted, "You know very well it would have been the subject of a Brady hearing." She glanced at the jury. "Approach, your honor?"

"Come on up," Wright said, beckoning both Regan and Cutter.

Cutter clearly was the kind of lawyer who believed that attack was the best form of defense. _Like someone else I could mention,_ Regan thought. "Your honor, I am not _required_ to give the defense a preview of my case. I have notified of all witnesses I intend to call. If Ms Markham thinks – "

"You're trying to set a skunk loose in the courtroom in your opening when you know very well your witnesses won't be able to testify in support of your imputations!" Regan hissed.

"You don't _know_ they won't be able to testify," Cutter pointed out. "That's up to the judge."

"The _evidence_ that Mr. Cutter is relying on to justify his opening is inadmissible on the ground of hearsay, inadmissible on the ground of relevance, inadmissible on the ground of character, and inadmissible on the grounds of prejudice," Regan said. "Your honor, I seek an immediate Brady on this matter."

"Too late, Ms Markham," Judge Wright said. "Trial's started. You should have foreseen this."

"Yes, your honor, I should have, and I should hate to see my client suffer an appealable conviction due to my incompetence," Regan said quickly.

Wright chuckled. "Threatening the trial judge with appeal – straight from the Jack McCoy playbook. And you, Mr. Cutter – I am putting you on a very short leash. I can see what you're doing. If you introduce in your opening statement facts that cannot be supported by admissible evidence, I will declare a mistrial at the close of your case. How would that look on your CV?"

"Better than an acquittal, your honor," Cutter said with a cocky smile.

"Don't be so sure," Wright warned.

Regan walked back to her seat, palms sweating. She caught Danielle's eye and the other lawyer gave her an encouraging smile. Regan tried to return it, but her face felt stiff and she thought her expression was probably closer to a grimace. She sank into her chair and picked up her pen. _Jack's history_, she wrote on her pad, and underlined it.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Cutter continued, "You will hear evidence that Mr. McCoy left the bar in the company of a young subordinate, Ms Keri Dyson. You will hear that they seemed to be on affectionate terms – at least from Jack McCoy's side. You will hear that no-one was surprised to see this."

"Mr. Cutter," the judge said warningly.

"And you will hear," Cutter went on smoothly, "that Ms Dyson, concerned that Jack McCoy was too intoxicated to find his own way home safely, accompanied him. That she assisted him into his building, and into his apartment." He shrugged. "You might have an opinion of the character of the kind of man whose use of alcohol affects his behavior to such a degree. But Jack McCoy isn't on trial here today for being – "

"Objection!" Regan said, on her feet before she knew it.

"Mr. Cutter," Wright said wearily.

"For being drunk," Cutter said. "Or for any other aspects of his behavior. He's on trial because once Keri Dyson had made sure he was safely in his own home, he assumed her concern was inspired by a more – _intimate_ – motivation. And when he attempted to initiate sexual relations with this young woman who worked for him, and she rebuffed him, his reaction was not mere disappointment." Cutter turned to look at McCoy, who sat staring straight ahead. "His reaction was violent. You will hear how he struck her – not once, or lightly, although that would have been a crime. You will hear how he took her by the throat and punched her in the face, once – " Cutter turned back to the jury, bringing his clenched fist into the palm of his other hand. "Twice." Again his fist smacked into his hand, and beside her, Regan felt McCoy flinch. She put her hand over his, feeling the tendons standing out like wires beneath her fingers. "Three times." _Smack_.

Still not looking at Regan, McCoy jerked his hand out from under hers. His face was impassive, but Regan thought he looked pale, and there were beads of sweat at his hairline.

"Jack …" she murmured softly.

He didn't even glance her way. "Do the job I hired you to do," he murmured harshly.

"We will prove these facts, as unpalatable as they are – as unpalatable and disappointing as I find them," Cutter said. "I know that it is hard to believe that a man with Jack McCoy's history of public service can be a criminal. But if there's anything I've learnt in my years in this job, it's that anyone is capable of anything, if the circumstances are right. And if there's one single value I've learnt to put above all others, it's that _no-one_ is above the law."

Cutter walked back to the prosecution table. Regan looked at her notes, then quickly glanced at the statement Danielle and Nora had helped her draft. She began to rise to her feet.

McCoy's hand shot out and closed hard on her wrist. "No opening," he said.

"Jack, he's killing us!" Regan hissed, excruciatingly aware of the jurors' eyes on them. "I have to – "

"_No. Opening._" McCoy ground out. He met her gaze for the first time since they'd walked into the courtroom, cold fury in his eyes. "Those are my instructions."

* * *

.oOo.

* * *


	21. No Contest

A/N: I'm very sorry for the incredible delay in updating. I've had internet access issues that have kept me off-line for a month. Thank you for your patience, I hope you haven't lost interest in the story!

Once again, thanks to RebeccaInley for her painstaking work as a beta, and to Lynn for support, encouragement and insight.

* * *

**No Contest**

* * *

"_No. Opening._" McCoy said harshly, gaze holding Regan's. "Those are my instructions." His fingers bit into her wrist.

_The Code of Professional Responsibility_ left Regan no choice but to nod. Her stomach twisted. _Help me Ellie, oh god, it hurts, help me… _Cutter wastearing McCoy to pieces in front of her, and she was helpless to stop it.

She turned to the judge. "Defense has no statement at this time," she said, and sank back into her seat.

McCoy released her wrist, and Regan put her hands in her lap, out of sight of the jury, and unobtrusively rubbed at the livid marks his fingers had left, working her fingers to restore feeling. She glanced angrily at McCoy and was surprised to see what seemed to be a look of horror on his face. _He's come to his senses two seconds too late_, she thought, and leaned toward him.

"Don't worry, I can still open at the beginning of our case," she reassured him.

"What?" McCoy asked hoarsely, as if her words made no sense to him, as if she were speaking a foreign language he had to travel a great distance to hear.

"Don't worry – " Regan said again.

"I'm not worried," McCoy said dismissively, and turned his attention back to the front of the courtroom.

Regan turned as well. In her peripheral vision she could see Cutter watching the defense table. She cut her eyes to the right to see him better, but couldn't read his expression. _Don't know him well enough_. Was he curious? Speculative? Pleased with himself?

_All of the above_, Regan concluded.

Looking at the jury, Regan thought that Mike Cutter had every reason to be pleased with himself. The jury had heard the dog-whistle he'd been blowing – _Jack McCoy is an alcoholic womanizer_ – and he'd successfully provoked her into forgetting the importance of the jury's opinion of her. When Regan caught the gaze of one of the women in the jury, the woman quickly looked away. _Bad sign_, Regan thought, her stomach turning.

"Mr. Cutter, are you ready to proceed?" Wright asked.

"Yes," Cutter said.

_Here we go. Keri Dyson. And I got nothing. _

"The people call Dr Elizabeth Rodgers," Cutter said.

As the call went out into the hallway, Regan stared at Cutter. _He's not calling Dyson. Not yet. _

A reprieve. But Regan didn't feel reprieved. _What's Cutter up to_?

Liz Rodgers strode down the aisle, through gate and across the well. She settled herself in the witness stand and took the oath in a crisp voice.

"Dr Rodgers, you are the Chief Medical Examiner for New York City, correct?" Cutter asked.

"That's right," Rodgers said. To Regan, she sounded pissed off at the question. _But then, Liz Rodgers always sounds pissed off about something. _

"I'm showing you a medical report," Cutter said, picking up a file from the prosecution table and walking toward the witness stand.

Regan scrambled to her feet. "Your honor, I'd like to be heard on the question of the admissibility of that report," she said quickly, grabbing Dr Jordan's affidavit.

"You can't be pretending there's a discovery issue," Cutter said in mock astonishment. "You've had this report since day one."

"Approach," Wright said wearily.

"Your honor," Regan said as she reached the bench, hurrying to keep Cutter from getting a word in edgewise, "defense was provided with a _copy_ of this report, but without the opportunity to examine the original."

"You could have requested that at any time," Cutter countered.

"Evidence has only just come to light that cast doubt on the veracity of this document," Regan said desperately. "Given this, and the best evidence rule – "

"Which doesn't prohibit mechanically produced copies – " Cutter interrupted.

"Except where a party has raised a genuine question about the accuracy of the copy," Regan said.

"I've yet to hear your genuine question," Wright said to her.

"Your honor, defense has an affidavit from the doctor whose signature appears on that document, stating that he did not treat Keri Dyson, does not work at Mercy and was not in Manhattan on the night in question," Regan said. She glanced at Cutter and thought he looked genuinely surprised. "Given this, defense seeks to have the report Mr. Cutter is about to tender in evidence subjected to expert examination and testing."

"That doesn't sound unreasonable, Mr. Cutter," Wright said, "Even if it is a motion that should have been made _in limine. _Do you have any knowledge of this discrepancy?"

"None, your honor," Cutter said.

"I'll tell you what I'll do," Wright said. "You, Mr. Cutter, can continue on this line. But you will make the original document available to the defense for their testing _immediately_. I will take _judicial_ notice of the results of these tests. And if the document turns out to be a forgery, the jury will hear about it – from the bench, not just from the defense."

Cutter glanced down at the file he held. "Your honor, the People have a notarized copy of this document, not the original."

"Well, _get _the original," Wright ordered. "Get your complaining witness to sign a release and get the original file from the hospital."

"Yes, your honor," Cutter said.

"And, Ms Markham, I'm warning you, if you're playing fast-and-loose here, I won't be happy," Wright said.

"I can present the affidavits to you immediately, your honor," Regan said, doing just that. "My associate was about to return to Baltimore to interview witnesses who can confirm Dr Jordan's presence in Baltimore on the night – "

"Get your DA's investigators on it," Wright ordered Cutter. He held out the affidavit Regan had handed up to his clerk. "Copy to the People," he instructed.

"Your honor, it's never been the responsibility of the prosecution to support defense – " Cutter started.

"You are running very close to EC 7-13," Wright said.

"I think that's debatable," Cutter said.

"I guarantee you the chance of debating it before the ethics committee," Wright said. "Evidence has been brought to your attention that a key piece of prosecution evidence may be unreliable. Follow it up!"

"Yes, your honor," Cutter said, conceding.

"Carry on, both of you," Wright said, shooing them back toward the tables.

As Regan took her seat she saw Cutter lean over to speak to Connie Rubirosa. The ADA's eyes widened, and she got hastily to her feet and left the courtroom. _Chasing down the original document,_ Regan thought to herself, _and the Baltimore witnesses. And, I hope to God, asking Keri Dyson a few very pointed questions. _

"What the hell were you doing?" McCoy asked her angrily.

"I can't stipulate to this exhibit and then challenge it later on the basis of evidence that is already in my possession," Regan said. She looked over the bar to Danielle Melnick for support.

"Best of bad choices," Danielle said, nodding. "I hate tipping my hand this early, but sometimes you don't have an option."

"You've no substantive reason to challenge it at all," McCoy said.

"The man who signed it was in another city at the time," Regan said. "That's substantive. Now shut up and let me do my job."

"You might need these," Danielle said, leaning forward to hand Regan a sheaf of papers. "Depositions from the ADAs at the bar that night."

"I think Cutter's going to call them and try to get character in by the back door," Regan said. "What do I do?"

"Get used to the words 'Objection – inadmissible under _Molineux_',' Danielle said with an elegant shrug.

Regan gave Danielle one last imploring look and turned back to watch Mike Cutter continue his cross-examination.

"Dr Rodgers, I'm showing you a copy of a medical report, People's 1," Cutter resumed. "Will you tell the jury what it shows?"

"It's an ER report from Mercy General," Rodgers said, sounding bored. "Patient's name Keri Dyson, treated in the small hours of May 4 this year."

"Last Friday," Cutter prompted.

"If you say so, I don't have a calendar handy," Rodgers said dismissively. "Anyway, according to this chart, Ms Dyson was treated for facial contusions and a fractured cheekbone by Dr Rob Jordan."

"What is your expert opinion on the cause of these injuries?" Cutter asked.

"Two or three blows to the face," Rodgers said.

Regan glanced at the jury and saw them rapt. She looked at McCoy. He was staring straight ahead, back ramrod straight.

"With a weapon?" Cutter asked.

"Probably with a fist," Rodgers said.

"Severe blows?" Cutter asked.

"It's hard to comment without having examined Ms Dyson," Rodgers said.

"But if pressed?"

"Asked and answered," Regan objected, and Wright nodded.

"Move on, Mr. Cutter," he advised.

"Any other injuries?" Cutter asked.

"Bruising to the neck consistent with the patient having been held by the neck, perhaps choked," Rodgers said, and Regan heard McCoy's breath catch. Rodgers flipped the file closed. "It's my opinion that these impacts would have left corresponding marks on the hand of the – "

"Thank you, Dr Rodgers," Cutter said, cutting her off. He turned toward Regan. "Your witness."

Regan began to stand. McCoy reached as if to take her wrist again but stopped abruptly before he touched her. "No cross," he instructed.

"Jack!" Regan said, bending toward him and trying to keep her voice too low for Cutter or the jury to hear. "I can't leave that testimony unchallenged – "

McCoy shook his head "EC 7-7. The authority to make decisions is exclusively that of the client and, if made within the framework of the law, such decisions are binding on the lawyer," His voice was harsh and final. "_No cross_."

Regan swallowed hard against threatening nausea. "No questions for this witness at this time," she told Judge Wright, and saw his eyebrows go up.

As she sat down this time she was sure she saw Cutter staring at her. _He must wonder what I'm up to_, she thought sickly. _I wish this really __**was**__ some brilliant legal ploy._

Cutter's next witness was Bill Fitzgerald. Fitzgerald reluctantly testified that McCoy had been very 'affectionate' with Keri Dyson at the _Lord Roberts_, that he had seemed intoxicated, that they had left together 'walking very close'. Regan thought glumly that Fitzgerald was an excellent witness for the prosecution – obviously unwilling to say anything derogatory about McCoy, but obeying the requirements of the court and his oath, both as witness and as an officer of the court. _The jury will add ten percent to everything he says, on the assumption he's downplaying it_, Regan thought.

Skimming his deposition while Cutter questioned him, Regan noted a few questions on her pad. She might not be able to undo Cutter's dog-whistle – _Were you surprised to see Mr. McCoy and Ms Dyson leave together? And why not? – _but she could get in a few good points about how little McCoy had had to drink, how quickly he'd become intoxicated.

As she began to rise to her feet, McCoy turned to her and reached out to lay his right hand flat over her legal pad, covering her notes. "No cross," he said.

Regan paused, looking down at his hand because she thought that if she looked at his face she'd quite possibly punch it. His ring caught the light, the _JJM_ disappearing and reappearing in the late morning sun through the courtroom window. Regan laid both her hands over his. Her grazed knuckles and bruises made her hands look like a laborer's or a farmer's compared to his.

_Well, I'm the brawler_, she thought. _And I'd fight his battles for him – if he'd let me. _

"Jack…" she whispered, caught between nausea and tears.

"No cross," McCoy said coldly, and drew his hand from under hers.

Regan nodded tiredly, and rose to her feet. "No questions for this witness at this time," she told the court.

Judge Wright frowned at her. "The witness is excused," he said. "And you, Ms Markham, approach."

When Regan reached the bench, Cutter close behind, Wright covered the microphone with his hand and said: "What the hell are you playing at?"

"I'm not playing at anything," Regan said. "I'm following the instructions of my client. As required to by the Code of – "

"Yes, yes," Wright said, waving her to silence. "Do you mean that what I thought I overheard is correct? Your client has specifically instructed you to offer no opening statement and no cross-examination?"

"Yes, your honor," Regan said.

Wright's lips tightened. "Goddamn it," he said. "I thought I told you I wouldn't have this trial turned into Jack McCoy's personal circus."

"And I listened, your honor," Regan said. "But … "

"I understand," Wright said grimly. He let go of the microphone. "We'll have the luncheon recess now for an hour. And I'll see prosecution, defense, and _the defendant_ in my chambers. _Right now!_"

* * *

.oOo.

* * *

A/N: EC 7-13 of the Professional Code of conduct is the part that declares that prosecutors should not avoid pursuing evidence just because it might be exculpatory.

I am here, and will in the rest of the story, play a little fast-and-loose with the Molineux standard – established in _People v. Molineux_, 168 N.Y. 264 (1901), the Molineux standard determines the admissibility or otherwise of evidence of acts unrelated to the act charged but which are, or may be considered to be, relevant to the guilt or otherwise of the defendant. It is generally held that evidence of prior acts or character is inadmissible if it goes only to prove that the defendant is the type of person who might be expected to commit the act in question, but admissible to establish motive, opportunity, intent, preparation, common scheme or plan, identity, absence of mistake or accident. There are in a number of jurisdictions, including Federally, exceptions allowing the admissibility of evidence concerning sexual offences.


	22. Judicial Notice

**Judicial Notice**

**

* * *

**

_Judge __William Wright's Chambers_

_Supreme Court_

_100 Centre St_

_11.45am Thursday May 10__h__ 2007_

_

* * *

_

Judge Wright pulled off his robes, getting briefly tangled and finally jerking himself free just as Regan thought perhaps she should step forward and offer assistance.

He flung them in a bundle onto his desk, glaring at Jack McCoy.

"I will not have an appeal ploy run in my courtroom!" he said.

"That isn't my intention, your honor," McCoy said from where he stood slightly behind Regan, as befitted a defendant. _About the only part of being a defendant he's got right,_ Regan thought sourly.

"It certainly looks that way to me!" Wright snapped.

"I didn't know they handed out psychic powers with the robes these days," McCoy retorted.

"Keep talking, Mr. McCoy, you can see the inside of a jail cell sooner than you might have expected," Wright warned.

"Your honor," Regan said desperately, "Emotions are clearly running a little high, if I might have a moment to talk to my client – "

"Do you have a reasonable expectation of having any more luck talking sense to your client in 'a moment' than you have had in the past week?" Wright demanded.

Regan hesitated. "Not what I would describe as reasonable, your honor," she said, and tried to manufacture a smile. "But where there's life, there's hope."

"No," Wright said shortly. "Now listen to me, Mr. McCoy, Ms Markham, Mr. Cutter – this trial is turning into a farce. Both defense and prosecution want to rush into my courtroom, and when you get here I have a prosecutor whose case is falling apart as he presents it and who hasn't taken even the most rudimentary steps to assure himself of the veracity of his evidence, and a defendant who has tied his counsel's hands behind her back."

Cutter raised his eyebrows, shooting Regan a knowing glance. She glared at him, lip curling in disdain. _Not the time for innuendo, Mr. Cutter_, her stony stare said as clear as she could make it, and Cutter had the grace to look abashed.

"I am entitled to instruct my attorney as I see fit," McCoy said.

"You're also entitled to competent representation. At the moment, you're on track to securing a conviction for yourself in a case that, quite frankly, shouldn't have gotten past the grand jury, and which is based on evidence that I am beginning to suspect would not have survived a motion _in limine_ drafted by a public defender on her first _traffic court_ trial." Wright took a deep breath.

"Your honor – " McCoy started.

"_I'm not finished_!" Wright roared. "I am going to salvage a trial out of this circus. Mr. Cutter, _prepare_ _your case_. Mr. McCoy, get the hell out of the way of your lawyer. She's doing the best she can –"

"Why don't I save us all some time and change my plea to guilty right now?" McCoy suggested with a grimace that Regan thought he probably intended as a wry smile.

"Why don't you _shut up_," Regan said between gritted teeth.

"Excellent advice from your counsel," Wright said. "You should take it. And as to your offer to change your plea, I am not satisfied that a factual basis exists to support the charges to which you'd be pleading. You should have jumped off the cliff earlier, Mr. McCoy."

"My attorney talked me out of it," McCoy said.

"You should listen to her more often," Wright said. "When we come back after lunch, Mr. McCoy, Ms Markham is going to start acting like a defense lawyer. I will not have my courtroom turned into some kind of pro-forma performance. If Ms Markham passes on the cross of one more witness I will declare a mistrial."

"You have no grounds," Cutter and McCoy said in unison, and then shot startled glances at each other.

"Feel free to appeal," Wright said. "Either of you. Both of you. And we can do all this again – as many times as it takes, Mr. McCoy, for you to get a proper defense." He stared at McCoy. "Now get out of here, all of you. When we resume after lunch I expect this trial to be a _trial_."

Without waiting to see McCoy's reaction, Regan turned on her heel and left Wright's chambers. She stumbled out into the corridor, clutching her briefcase, struggling for breath, darkness hazing the edges of her vision.

"It'll be alright, Regan," McCoy said behind her, and she turned. He seemed to be a long way away down a dark corridor, his voice barely audible over the buzzing in her ears, over the sound of _gunfire_ and _screaming. _"You'll just walk through it, there's no way he can rule on whether or not you're – "

Regan held up her hand to stop him, tried to speak and failed. She turned away. _Help me, Ellie, help me, it hurts … _

"Regan!" McCoy said, stepping around her to get in front of her again, hand on her shoulder, face close to hers. "It'll be fine. You just ask a few standard questions and Wright will be satisfied."

Regan's stomach heaved. _Wright wants this trial to be a trial? With a client who won't help himself and a defense attorney who doesn't know enough of what she's doing to help him? _

_Can't __save Jack. _

_Can't __ever save anyone_.

Regan pushed past McCoy hard enough to stagger him and headed down the long dim corridor, trying to ignore the _screaming_.

"Regan," McCoy called as she strode away. She didn't stop.

_Oh god, Ellie,_ _help me, help me, it hurts, oh god it hurts …_

"Regan!" McCoy was following her, sounding angry. "We're not done!"

Regan kept walking, almost breaking into a run. Her gut twisted and she coughed, swallowed bile, clamped her hand over her mouth and shouldered past a couple of lawyers deep in conversation and pushed open the door to the restroom.

"Regan!"

The door closed on McCoy, cutting him off.

_Help me, oh god, help me, El, help me, it hurts, oh god, it hurts!_

Regan stumbled to the sink, dropping her briefcase. Her head was splitting, her face and hands were cold as ice. Her chest ached and she couldn't get her breath, tasting blood in her mouth, and hearing nothing but screaming and screaming _help me help me help _….

Clutching the edge of the basin, Regan was barely able to feel the cool porcelain under her fingers as she fought to keep her knees from buckling.

_Help me help me__ it hurts it hurts help me_ …

She retched violently, the spasms continuing even after her stomach was empty. Gasping for breath, she half-choked, coughed, spat bile into the sink and retched again. _Help me_, _Ellie, it hurts_ …

_Can't help you_, she thought groggily, the room spinning around her. _Can't help you. Can't help anyone._

"Regan?" McCoy said.

Regan turned her head to tell him he wasn't supposed to be in the women's restroom, to tell him to _get the hell out_, to _leave her alone_. Her eyes were watering, blurring her vision and sparing her from having to see his cold disapproval again.

Moving made her dizziness worse and she leaned over the basin again, dry-heaving.

"Need – a minute – " she managed to gasp.

And then McCoy's hand was warm and firm on her forehead, bracing her head, his other arm around her waist, holding her up as her knees threatened to fold.

The buzzing in her ears receded. The screaming faded. Regan found she could breathe. She leaned there, braced between the cold sink and McCoy's warm strength, taking careful little breaths.

"Something you ate?" McCoy asked her after a few moments, his voice gentler than she'd heard it in days, close by her ear.

"Must be," Regan mumbled. "Jack – I've gotta sit down – "

"Here you go." He helped her to the wall and when her knees gave, lowered her to the floor, crouching beside her. "Put your head between your knees."

Regan did as he advised, closing her eyes. The tile floor was cold and hard beneath her, the wall equally chill at her back, McCoy's hand on her shoulder warm. That was all she was capable of comprehending for a moment.

"Excuse me!" said an outraged female voice. "This is the _women's_ restroom!"

"My colleague is unwell," McCoy said tersely. Regan heard cloth rustle. "Make yourself useful – go get a soda from the machine."

Regan opened her eyes enough to see him handing coins to a woman about his own age, whose expression was a mixture of outrage, concern, and bemusement.

"And don't take all day about it,' McCoy advised.

"Jack, I don't think I can drink a soda," Regan said weakly as the other woman departed on her errand, looking as if she wasn't quite sure why she was going.

"That's okay," McCoy said calmly. "It's for me,"

Regan was surprised to find herself giving a snort of laughter.

When the woman returned with the drink, McCoy dismissed her. Expecting the hear the pop of a ring-pull, Regan was surprised to suddenly feel the icy can on the back of her neck.

"Hold still," McCoy said. "Ice is better, but this'll help."

"I thought ice on the neck was for bloody noses," Regan mumbled.

"Old wives' tale," McCoy said. "Bloody nose needs ice on the _nose_. I thought a tough street cop like you would know that."

"Tough street cops _give_ bloody noses, not get them," Regan said. She realized that she was indeed beginning to feel better. The swimming feeling in her head was fading, and she was able to focus on more than her immediate surroundings.

Focus on things like the afternoon ahead of her, instructed by her client to do the absolute minimum that would satisfy the judge, the closest thing to playing dead that she could manage.

_No_.

She couldn't do it.

She thought about getting up off the floor and walking out of the restroom, out of the courthouse. She knew from experience that she could fit everything she really needed into one suitcase. In a couple of hours she could be at the Port Authority, on a bus going somewhere – _anywhere . _She could vanish, just like last time, walk away from her failure, from what she'd done and what she hadn't, from what she'd become.

_Except last time it __was already over. _

And last time it had been her partner who'd let her know there was no place for her where she was, not anymore, her partner – the one person she had no choice but to believe.

_And this isn't over. _Regan wanted to go, to run, she had the chance to do it _before_, this time,_ before _she had one more failure to live with. But, _You gonna walk away when your partner needs you, girl? _an old man's voice asked her, creaky with age.

_Gotta see it through. Like last time, gotta see it through. _

_But this time – _there'd be no disappearing act, no way to slide out of her life and the lives of everybody who knew who and what she was. _Whether I have a job or not. _

This time, they wouldn't be burying the ones she couldn't help.

She knew, the knowledge as cold and solid as the cold can against her neck, that if she lost this case she'd be making the drive to wherever they put McCoy, week after week, signing the visitor's log and passing through the gates, sitting on the other side of the glass and trying to make small talk, trying to bring the world outside in to him, like all the other sisters and girlfriends and mothers and wives and friends.

Because her partner would need her.

_Just like he needs me now._

_And you don't leave your partner alone out __there in the dark. _

"You're doing fine in there," McCoy said reassuringly. "You can handle this afternoon."

"I'm not _doing fine_," Regan snapped, raising her head and dislodging the can from the back of her neck. McCoy caught it and put it against the line of her jaw, against the big vein in her neck. His hand wrapped around the can and his fingers brushed her skin, warm contrast to the cool metal. Regan covered his hand with her own and pulled it away. "I'm doing what you told me to do, and it _isn't fine_."

"I know you aren't happy with my instruction," McCoy said, his voice a little colder, "But that's how it is in private practice. The client gives the instructions. Whatever happens, it's on me, not you."

"You never get the ideal circumstances in a courtroom," Regan said. "Your job is to work with what you have. Sound familiar? You think I can walk away after this and tell myself, oh, well, wasn't my fault, didn't have much to work with? You ever tell yourself that, Jack?"

"This is different," McCoy said, gaze sliding away from hers.

"And you won't tell me why," Regan said bitterly.

"I've told you everything that's relevant," McCoy said. He stood up, looking down at her. "Now all you have to do is go back in there and follow your client's instruction."

Regan looked up at him, and then held out her hand. McCoy grasped it reflexively and she hauled herself to her feet, keeping hold of his hand so they were standing face-to-face and he couldn't turn away.

"I can't," she to him, feeling certainty as cold and reassuring as the can of soft-drink had been. "I can't, Jack – I can't _stomach _it."

She released him and turned to the basin, running the cold tap and splashing water over her face. Straightening up, she blinked water from her eyes and looked at him in the mirror.

"I'm going to win the case, with your co-operation or without it," she said steadily. "I'm going to go in there and win the case and you're going to sit there and behave."

"Or what?" McCoy said.

Regan grabbed a handful of paper towels and wiped her face. "Or I'll have you removed from the courtroom pending a 730 exam."

"You can't – "

"You don't think Judge Wright would back me?" Regan asked, tossing the towels in the trash.

"A 730 requires a psychiatric hold, it'll be on the record – you want to win the case, you're willing to do it at the cost of any credibility I'll ever have?" McCoy said, taking an angry step toward her. "That's blackmail!"

Regan turned to face him, propping herself against the sink. "Yes it is," she said calmly.

"You cannot possibly justify – " McCoy started, voice rising.

"I'm not much interested in what I can justify at this point," Regan said. "Ask me what I can possibly _get away with_, that's a more productive question."

"You are so far over the line," McCoy said, taking another step forward, crowding her, glaring down at her angrily. "If you go 730, the next courtroom you see will be the Ethics Committee."

"I'm well aware of it," Regan said. She lifted her chin and poked him hard in the chest. "Didn't you tell me that winning is everything in the courtroom, that justice is the by-product of winning? I'm going to win this case, whatever the consequences to me _or_ to you." Putting her hand flat on his chest, she pushed him back from her, turning toward the door. "Someone once told me that it was important to keep thinking like a lawyer. So I am. Get used it."

"Regan!" McCoy snapped angrily. "I'll call your bluff! You'll be finished – at the DA's Office, at the Bar."

"I know," Regan said. "But Jack – I'm not bluffing. _Never make a threat you're not prepared to carry through_, you told me, remember?" Hand on the door, she paused. "I'm not like you, Jack. I didn't start out as a lawyer. But you've done your best to make me into one." She gave him one final level glance. "Congratulations on your success."

* * *

.oOo.


	23. Zealous Defence

**Zealous Defense**

**

* * *

**

_Trial Part 3_

_Supreme Court 100 Centre St _

_1 pm Thursday May 10__th__ 2007_

_

* * *

_

Jack McCoy folded his hands on the defense table and looked straight ahead. He was acutely aware of the jury's gazes on him and just as conscious of his two colleagues – _soon to be former colleagues _– at the prosecution table. He could not bring himself to look at any of them, to see what was in their eyes.

Beside him, Regan Markham was reading over her notes. Behind him, Nora Lewin and Danielle Melnick sat side-by-side, ready to offer Regan advice if she needed it.

The trial was sliding out of his control. Oh, it had always been an illusion, that he could control the trial – he was the defendant, and he knew well enough the tricks that the prosecution would use to run the trial the way that suited them, especially in presenting the People's case, but he had at least assumed he would be able to insist Regan follow his instructions, play dead, run silent, get it over with …

Wright had put a stop to that. Party of McCoy's mind was turning over the possibility of an injunction against the judge, for his refusal to accept a plea of guilty, for his interference in the conduct of the defense's case. _But that would be a bigger circus, and a far more public one, that this. _

He suppressed a yawn. The few hours sleep he'd managed to get the night before had been broken by confused dreams of courtrooms where Claire Kincaid sat beside his sister and his mother in the jury box, where his father sat in judgment and used the gavel to pound Abbie Carmichael to a bloody mess, dreams from which he woke with his heart pounding and his throat as raw as if he had been screaming.

But simply enduring the trial, sitting impassively while Mike Cutter laid bare the kind of man he'd become, had been even harder than he could have had imagined.

The singleover-riding thought beating in his head had been _Let it end soon_. _Let it end soon. _

_Let it end._

Regan had wanted to make an opening statement, to cross-examine witnesses, to press every point of a case she refused to accept was futile.

If he could have explained to her – _no_. The thought of saying those words, of telling Regan, telling Abbie, Danielle … saying _I really am that man. In the end, the man you thought you knew was nothing more than a disguise_– he had steeled himself to bear Cutter's allegations, he could face a jury verdict, had prepared himself to endure sentencing and prison – but he could not find the courage to say those words out loud. To say _I am, when all is finally said and done, my father's son._

_No. _He had been determined to leave no chance that, even with Danielle and Sally and Serena coaching her, Regan could frustrate what McCoy knew to be justice: a guilty verdict.

Perhaps Regan was right: it was unfair to her, as she had told him over and over again. _But there's not much about any of this that __**is**__ fair. _

_And if she trusted me as much as she's always saying she does, she wouldn't need my explanations. _

It had always been easy for him to understand what drove other people – he had won more than one difficult case based on those moments of insight alone. He had sensed the truth of Linda Drosi's utter refusal to consider that her daughter had been honest; he had seen not only why Danielle Mason felt she had no choice but to claim she had been raped but also just which threat would persuade her to tell the truth.

And he had been able to tell how desperately Regan wanted to spring to his defense, to fight for him, just as McCoy himself had not even hesitated before joining Adam Schiff's efforts to overturn the Governor's decision to appoint a Special Prosecutor for the cruise ship shooting trial.

It was easy to be angry with her for pressing the issue, it was easy to give in to his need to argue back, to win –

McCoy looked sideways at Regan as she put down her pen and flexed her fingers, pulling a face at the movement of her bruised and battered hand, now with new marks that McCoy guessed had come from her furious battering at his door the previous day. It was a visible token of her frustration. _Easy for her to be angry, too_, McCoy thought.

_It's always easy to be angry_.

Until he had pushed open the door of the women's restroom, prepared to berate her for walking away from him, and seen her retching up her guts as her very body rebelled against the idea of letting Cutter's case go through to the catcher. _Pushed past breaking point._

_One more casualty of what I've become. Keri Dyson, Abbie, Regan … _

She'd looked so pitiful, crumpled in on herself with her head on her knees, the woman who had gained the courage to go toe-to-toe with him, who had once put her career in his hands and told him _We all have to trust somebody_ as if it were a complete explanation, shattered by the demands he'd used that trust to make.

And as furious as he'd been with her blackmail, the desperation it had revealed had been more painful.

Regan had told him she was thinking like a lawyer, but the calm face she had turned to him had been all cop: a cop with a gun to his head, whose instructions to raise his hands were not in the slightest bit negotiable. _A 730 exam, of all the high-wire acts – even Danielle Melnick never tried that on a client! _

_Talk about lateral thinking! _

Judge Wright gaveled the court back into session, and Regan rose to her feet. "Your honor," she said, looking not at the judge but down at McCoy, "at this point the defense wishes to recall – "

"_No_," McCoy said, keeping his voice low but putting every ounce of _I'm-the-DA-just-__**watch**__-me _into it that he could.

Regan didn't blink – or miss a beat. "Or rather, moves for an immediate – "

"_Regan_," McCoy hissed.

She paused, raising her eyebrows, and McCoy had no choice but to give in with a reluctant nod.

"At this point the defense recalls Mr. William Fitzgerald," Regan went on smoothly.

"Are you sure?" Judge Wright asked sarcastically.

"Yes, your honor, quite sure," Regan said serenely, but McCoy could see her hands shaking where they rested on the table.

_And they say __**I**__ have brass balls, _McCoy thought. He should be furious with her, and he _was _– any client had every right to haul a lawyer through every disciplinary mechanism in the _state_ for that kind of stunt –but mingled with that anger was a certain pride. _Ten months_ _ago she_ _was nervously preparing to arraign her first murderer_, he thought. _Look at her now!_

Her hands might be shaking, but Regan strolled across the well of the court as if it were her own backyard, hands loosely clasped in front of her, coming to a stop by the witness stand as Judge Wright reminded Bill Fitzgerald he was still under oath.

"I just have a couple of questions for you," Regan said gently, "If that's okay, Mr. Fitzgerald?"

"Yeah, sure," Fitzgerald responded, swallowing nervously. Regan gave him a reassuring smile and the young ADA smiled back. _Showing the jury she's not the bad guy_, McCoy thought. It was a familiar tactic, and one he'd used himself countless times. So familiar was Regan's approach that he almost expected her to rest one hand lightly on the railing of the witness stand the way he himself did, but instead she put her hands in her pockets. _Of course, _McCoy thought, _she doesn't want the jury to see_ _that counsel for the defense looks like __**she herself **__might well have committed the crime in question_.

_Turn toward the jury_, he willed her. _Include them in the conversation._

"Mr. Fitzgerald, I want to ask you about the evening of May 3, last Thursday," Regan said, shifting her stance so that her shoulder was no longer turned to the jury box, but keeping her attention steadily fixed on Fitzgerald. "You've testified about the time you spent at the Lord Roberts. How did you get to the bar?"

"By cab," Fitzgerald said.

"Alone?" Regan prompted, taking her left hand from her pocket and resting it on the railing of the witness stand.

McCoy had a strange sense of recognition, seeing his own courtroom mannerisms in Regan's stance, her tone, her gestures. _Like a fun-house mirror – identifiable, but distorted. _He couldn't help being reminded of the last time he had sat in a courtroom with his future in the hands of a young assistant, when he had sat in the body of the courtroom, watching Claire Kincaid cross-examine Diana Hawthorne.

The contrast could not have been sharper. Claire had been slender, willowy, her domination of the courtroom the result of her intelligence and personality, not her physical presence. She had had her _own_ style as a lawyer, a style in which McCoy had been able to see traces of Mac Gellar, Ben Stone, and even himself, but a style that was all her own. Juries had trusted her – she had exuded composure, confidence, class. _And her beauty was an asset as far as jury sympathy was concerned, too. _

Regan had no such advantages. There were moments when a trick of the light, a change in expression, turned the spare planes and hollows of her face to beauty – but she would never have Claire's loveliness. _Or ever be as classy_. Regan would never be anything but a beat-up ex-cop, working-class made good, nothing like the hot-house rose that had been Claire Kincaid. McCoy wondered if he was the only one in the courtroom who could tell that Regan felt uncomfortable in her business suit, uncertain in front of the jury. _A cop playing dress-up in lawyer's clothes._

_Claire never had any doubt she belonged in a courtroom_. Doubts about the usefulness, the ethics, the politics of prosecutions – she'd had plenty of those. _But never any doubts about herself, not when it came down to the crunch in the courtroom_.

"No, I shared a cab – with you and with Mr. McCoy," Fitzgerald answered Regan's question.

"Was Mr. McCoy drunk?" Regan asked. Her voice was quiet, but her tone uncompromising.

_Claire would have put a little sarcasm into her voice on that question_, McCoy thought. _Humor gets the jury onside. _

He caught himself thinking that Claire would have handled this cross-examination so much better than Regan was – and then remembered that he hadn't wanted the cross-examination to occur at all. _And I can just imagine Claire's response to that!_ he thought.

But imagine was all he could do. A phrase from a book came back to him. _The past is another country._

_And not one you can get a visa for_, McCoy added.

For a moment the thought grew vivid – a visit to the Embassy of the Past, the stamp on the passport, the queue for the boarding gate with _AA 1994 _ flashing over the door, and then disembarking, looking for that one familiar face in the arrivals hall …

Then heimagined the look on her face when she saw him, the silent reproach. McCoy strangled that thought unborn and forced himself to focus on the well of the court, on Regan Markham and her borrowed tactics.

"You know he wasn't drunk," Fitzgerald said firmly.

Regan smiled. "I can't testify, though, Mr. Fitzgerald. Or this would be a very short trial."

Cutter was on his feet "Does counsel have a question?" he asked tersely.

"Do you, Ms Markham?" Judge Wright asked.

"Yes, your honor," Regan said meekly. She turned back to Fitzgerald. "Was there liquor on Mr. McCoy's breath? Was he unsteady on his feet? Slurring his words?"

"No, no, and no. In fact – " Fitzgerald said, and hesitated.

"In fact what?" Regan prompted gently.

"When we were in the cab, you were complaining about a witness you'd both been prepping, and Mr. McCoy said that it had been a hell of a long day, but nothing the first drink of the night wouldn't cure. Taking everything into consideration, I would bet he was stone cold sober when we got to the bar."

"And you testified … " Regan took a few quick steps back to the defense table and picked up a file. McCoy could see that it was in fact the collection of affidavits Serena Southerlyn had gathered, but Regan held it so the jury couldn't see what she was reading. "Here it is," she said, as if she was reading over a transcript of Fitzgerald's testimony. "You testified that Mr. McCoy bought drinks … Mr. Cutter suggested that Mr. McCoy's motives might be inferred from the fact that he bought Ms Dyson a drink. But he bought a drink for you, too, didn't he? Was he trying to get _you_ into bed, Mr. Fitzgerald?"

Fitzgerald blushed, and one of the jurors snickered. "No."

"And you testified that some time after that you were – was it playing the piano?" Regan asked.

"Singing," Fitzgerald said.

"Singing. And you saw Ms Dyson hand Mr. McCoy a drink. Did Mr. McCoy seem intoxicated at _that_ time?" Regan put the file back on the defense table and began to stroll back toward the witness stand.

"No. He seemed fine," Fitzgerald said.

"At around eight o'clock?"

"Yes."

"You sure?" Regan pressed.

"Positive," Fitzgerald said.

"And you testified that when next you caught sight of Mr. McCoy, about fifteen minutes later, he was sitting in a booth with Ms Dyson," Regan said.

"Yes," Fitzgerald said, and blushed again.

"And they were – what was the term you used?"

"They seemed to be getting along," Fitzgerald said, still blushing.

"Behaving indiscreetly," Regan said.

"Yes."

"Were you surprised?"

"Very," Fitzgerald said before Cutter could cut him off.

"Your honor – " Cutter said.

"You opened the door," Regan said quickly. McCoy shot a glance at Cutter and saw the prosecutor frowning, no doubt realizing that the latitude he had taken on direct examination would now be used against him in Regan's cross. _Did he see the risk when he took it? _McCoy wondered. _He has a reputation for being fond of the high-wire. _

McCoy himself had used similar tactics to Cutter's strategy of innuendo when a jury needed to be persuaded to convict on slim evidence. _Juries like to lock up people who deserve it. _

_The problem with that approach is that all the defense needs to do is prove that the defendant __**doesn't**__ deserve it. _

_I wonder if Cutter guesses how much of an uphill battle that would be for Regan with __**this**__ defendant._

"She's right, Mr. Cutter. You did indeed open the door," Judge Wright said. "So, Ms Markham, proceed on through."

"Thank you, your honor. Why surprised, Mr. Fitzgerald?" Regan asked.

"Because it's a sacking offense," Fitzgerald said. "Because there's always gossip, but I never saw anything to support it. Because it seemed very out of character."

"Out of character," Regan repeated slowly. "Thank you, Mr. Fitzgerald."

She turned and began to walk back to the defense table. McCoy counted her steps, waiting for her to feign sudden recollection of a last-minute question. _One, two, three – _Regan turned back, as McCoy had known she would.

"One more thing," she asked. "You saw Mr. McCoy leaving, didn't you?"

"Yes."

"Did he seem intoxicated?"

"He had to lean on Keri to stand up," Fitzgerald said, and then looked past Regan to McCoy. "I'm sorry, Mr. McCoy, but it's true. I couldn't believe anyone could get so plastered in half-an-hour."

"You couldn't believe anyone could get _that_ drunk _that_ quickly?" Regan said. "Neither can I."

Cutter bounced to his feet, mouth open to object, but Regan already was back at the defense table. "Nothing further, your honor," she said calmly, sinking into her chair.

Cutter stayed on his feet. "No redirect, your honor," he said.

"Mr. Fitzgerald, thank you for your time," Judge Wright said.

As Fitzgerald made his way from the witness stand to the body of the courtroom, Regan rose to her feet again. "Defense would like at this point to cross-examine Dr Elizabeth Rodgers," she said.

"You've missed that boat," Cutter said immediately. "If you want to call her when you present _your_ case – "

"Approach, you honor?" Regan asked, on her way to the front of the courtroom even before Wright nodded. McCoy couldn't hear what she said to Wright, but the judge nodded with every sentence.

"Step back, counselors," he said. "I'll allow this witness."

Rodgers took the stand with her usual air of cynical impatience, although without the barely concealed disdain with which she usually regarded defense attorneys.

Regan got straight to the point. "You were about to tell the jury something about corresponding marks before Mr. Cutter stopped you?"

"Yes,' Rodgers said. "Based on the injuries indicated in the medical file and shown in the included photographs, it's my opinion that Ms Dyson's assailant would have suffered injuries to the right hand, particularly the knuckle."

"Noticeable injuries?" Regan asked.

"Objection, calls for speculation – " Cutter said.

"As did your questions to this witness," Regan retorted quickly.

Ignoring them both, Rodgers raised her voice so the jury could hear her over the arguing lawyers. "I would expect abrasions, possibly fractures," she said flatly.

"I'll allow the question," Wright ruled, a little behind the play.

"And, Dr Rodgers, did you have occasion to examine Mr. McCoy's hands recently?" Regan asked.

"Yes," Rodgers said. "On Sunday May 6, this Sunday recently past, you and Mr. McCoy attended my office for the purpose of seeking an expert medical examiner's opinion on whether the condition of Mr. McCoy's hands supported the accusation that he had assaulted Keri Dyson."

"And what did you conclude?" Regan asked.

"Well, as you can see from these photos – " Rodgers said, reaching into her attaché case and taking out a large envelope.

"Objection!" Cutter snapped. "Witness is referring to documents not in evidence!"

Regan took the envelope from Rodgers. "Defense One, your honor," she said, lifting the flap and pulling out several large, glossy prints. "As we can see from these photos, doctor?" she said, holding the photos so that the jury could see them.

Rodgers leaned forward to point to the photos as she answered. "There is a complete absence of any bruising or abrasions. In addition, I took a series of X-rays of both Mr. McCoy's hands and found no fractures of any kind."

"Thank you, doctor," Regan said. She handed the photos to the judge's clerk and walked back to her seat as Cutter rose from his.

"Redirect, your honor?" he said. "Dr Rodgers, can you conclusively say that Jack McCoy did not inflict the injuries Keri Dyson suffered?"

"Not conclusively," Rodger was forced to admit.

"Thank you, nothing further."

McCoy realized that Regan was on her feet again. "Re-cross, your honor," she said. "I have the right under – "

"I know you have the right," Wright said. "Get on with it!"

"Dr Rodgers, are you familiar with a drug known as GHB?" Regan asked.

"Gamma-Hydroxybutyric acid," Rodger replied. "Yes, I'm familiar with it."

"Could you describe the effects of Gamma-Hydroxybutyric acid to the jury?"

"It causes relaxation, reduced inhibition, drowsiness. It also causes amnesia. It's sometimes called the date-rape drug."

"Does it take effect quickly?" Regan asked.

"Quite quickly."

"And do the symptoms mimic alcoholic intoxication?"

"In the early stages, yes," Rodgers said.

"Thank you, doctor," Regan said. "I have nothing further, your honor."

"You're excused, doctor," the judge said. He glanced at his watch. "Given the hour, I think we'll adjourn for the day. See you all tomorrow at 9.30."

McCoy looked at his own watch and was surprised to see it was half-past four. He had been so absorbed in watching Regan's cross-examination he hadn't noticed the time passing.

As the jury filed out Regan turned in her chair and leaned toward Danielle Melnick. "How was that?" she asked anxiously.

"Good," Danielle said. "The jury was doubtful, but they listened."

Regan nodded, drooping a little in her chair. "He'll call Dyson tomorrow, you think?"

"It's likely," Danielle said.

Regan glanced toward the front of the courtroom, where the door was closing behind the jury. She shrugged out of her jacket and dropped it onto the table. Her shirt was dark with sweat and she pulled the collar away from her neck.

"It's harder than it looks, isn't it?" McCoy said.

She shot him a sideways grin, and for a moment they might have been sitting at the prosecution table having just tag-teamed a recalcitrant witness. "I could use a drink," she admitted.

"No time for celebrations," Danielle said from behind them, reminding McCoy that he was not –_would never be again_ – on the right side of the aisle. "We've got a lot of work to do tonight."

"You can do it without me," McCoy said abruptly, getting to his feet. "Since my lawyer has clearly decided to run the case without my instructions."

Regan looked up at him without moving, and McCoy thought the expression on her face might be anger. _Had_ to be anger.

Because if it wasn't anger, it was sadness.

And that made no sense at all.

.oOo.

* * *

A/N: Linda Drosi is the mother in "Blaze"; Danielle Mason is the teenage girl in "Good Girl"; the case where Schiff was removed by the governor was in "Terminal"

L. P. Hartley's 'The Go-Between' begins with "The past is a foreign country; they do things differently there", which is frequently misquoted as "The past is another country".


	24. Winning Tactics

**Winning Tactics**

**

* * *

**

_Office of ADA Mike Cutter_

_6__th__ Floor, One Hogan Place _

_7 pm Thursday May 10__th__ 2007_

_

* * *

_

Cutter paced from one side of his office to the other, baseball bat resting on his shoulder.

The day in court had definitely been … unusual.

_Understatement_, Cutter thought wryly.

Markham had blindsided him with her challenge to the medical report. It was the only piece of forensic evidence the prosecution had, and now not only did he have doubts about the veracity of the report, but the judge did as well. He'd been forced to decide on the spot whether it would be worse to let the report go, immeasurably weakening his case but preventing Markham from introducing evidence that it was falsified, or bring it in and hope for the best.

He'd picked the second option. _Not the first trial I've had to spend flying by the seat of my pants._

His decision not to call Keri Dyson first was now looking like a bad mistake. With an appealing victim, and not much else, he'd decided to use her to _close_ his case rather than open it, leaving the jury with the image of her battered face to distract them from whatever Regan Markham had to say. Now… _If I'd called her today, Markham wouldn't have had enough to convincingly impeach her. Now, even if I call her first thing in the morning, Markham can hammer her on that inconsistent signature. _

The only reason the prosecution was as in as good a shape as they were right now was entirely due to Jack McCoy. Cutter had been wary when he'd seen McCoy prevent his lawyer from giving an opening statement. He'd been perplexed when Markham had declined the opportunity to cross-examine his first two witnesses. When McCoy had offered to change his plea to guilty in the judge's chambers …

_Whatever the problems with the hospital chart, whatever the problems with my case, I have a defendant who admits he's guilty. And by god, I'm going to convict the son-of-a-bitch. _

"Hey, Mike," Connie said from the door.

Cutter turned, spinning the bat in his hands. "What've got for me, Connie?"

"Keri Dyson will be here in thirty minutes."

"You said that an hour ago," Cutter pointed out.

"Her car broke down. I sent two guys from the Investigator's division down to give her lift," Connie said.

"Okay. What else?"

"Taylor and Crossetti hit Baltimore a couple of hours ago, they're still running witnesses but so far everything Dr Jordan said checks out, one hundred percent."

"Shit!" Cutter's hands clenched on the bat. "Markham's going to get that into evidence!"

"Yes, she is," Connie said. "I still can't find the doorman. Not at work, not at home, I've hammered on his door personally, no luck. But when the jury hears Mr. Rodriguez – "

"The jury won't hear Mr. Rodriguez," Cutter said quickly.

"If we don't put him on the stand, Regan will – "

"Not if she doesn't know about him. And it's Regan now, is it?"

"Yeah, it's Regan, Jack and Mike," Connie said evenly. "And you have to turn over his name."

"Why?"

"It's exculpatory!" Connie said. "EC 7-13 – "

Cutter shook his head. "No it isn't. Rodriguez didn't go up to the apartment, he didn't see anything after he left Dyson and McCoy in the foyer. For all we know, McCoy perked right up in the elevator, and all the rest happened just like Dyson said." He shrugged. "It's not exculpatory – I don't have a duty to disclose. And you can stop chasing the doorman. You've made every effort to locate him, you've exhausted your responsibility."

"I don't think I have," Connie said sharply.

"Don't get up on your high horse, Connie," Cutter warned. "Our job is to get a conviction."

"We represent the people and the interests of the people are served by a fair outcome," Connie said hotly.

"The interests of the people are served by convicting a guilty man," Cutter said.

"And you're so sure he's guilty?"

"He offered to change his plea in chambers," Cutter said.

Connie took a sharp breath, eyes widening in shock. "He _what_?"

"Offered to change his plea," Cutter said. He swung the bat idly. "Judge wouldn't accept it on the basis of lack of factual basis. But whatever shape our case is, we have a defendant who is willing to admit guilt. And I'm going to make sure the jury gets the message. Is there anything else?"

"No," Connie said slowly. "No, nothing."

"Let me know when Dyson gets here," Cutter said.

As the door closed behind Connie, Cutter took another swing with the bat.

_EC 7 -13_ … His lips quirked in an ironic smile. _ The responsibility of a public prosecutor is to seek justice, not merely to convict. because: decisions affecting the public interest should be fair to all; the prosecutor should make timely disclosure to the defense of available evidence, known to the prosecutor, that tends to negate the guilt of the accused, mitigate the degree of the offense, or reduce the punishment. Further, a prosecutor should not intentionally avoid pursuit of evidence merely because he or she believes it will damage the prosecutor's case or aid the accused. _

_Jack McCoy's run close to the wire on E 7 -13 in his time_, Cutter thought. _Let him get a taste of his own medicine._

That had been Arthur Branch's instruction to him. _Give the stubborn son-of-a-bitch a taste of his own medicine_.

Cutter smiled. _Happy to oblige. _

He went back to his desk and clicked open the link for LawLib, and typed 'judicial discretion to refuse plea' in the search box.

He was still reading when Connie returned to tell him that Keri Dyson had arrived.

Dyson's bruises were just as startling every time Cutter saw her. As she took a seat, he wondered if he had gone easier on her during witness prep because she was so different from the usual range of witnesses he dealt with. _In narcotics, there are no victims. I can't remember the last time I had a tax-paying citizen on the stand – it's just one skell testifying against another skell, out of spite, for a deal, because a conviction will settle a territorial dispute._

Keri Dyson was a colleague, was a young woman in a fragile mental state, wore the evidence of her ordeal clear on her face.

Cutter took a breath and settled himself across from Dyson, Connie in the corner with a legal pad.

"Keri, we had some problems in court today," Cutter said, starting gently. "The defense has found evidence, that we've been able to confirm, that the doctor who signed your chart at the hospital couldn't have possibly treated you."

Dyson blinked. "I don't know what that means," she said.

"I don't know what it means, either," Cutter said. "I need you to sign this release – " he picked up the form he'd already prepared – "so we can get the originals of your records from the hospital and try to work out what's gone wrong here."

Dyson folded her hands together rather than reach out for the form. "I've given you a copy."

"You did," Cutter acknowledged. "But the judge wants the originals examined by an expert."

Dyson shook her head. "I didn't need to even give you the copies," she said.

"But you did, Keri," Connie said, leaning forward. "Which is really the same thing, in terms of privacy, as the originals."

"No it isn't," Dyson said. "You have to give a lot of information when they treat you at the ER. A lot of stuff that isn't relevant. I don't want that in evidence."

"I understand," Cutter said. "But the judge has _ordered_ us to present the original – "

"He can't make that order," Dyson said sharply. "And you know it. He can't make a judicial order against doctor-patient confidentiality."

'What do you have to hide, Keri?" Cutter asked.

"I'm the _victim_ here," Dyson said, her eyes welling with tears. "I'm not going to give up _my _rights because someone committed a crime against me!"

Cutter tried for a little while longer to persuade her of the importance of her testimony, but she wouldn't change her position. It didn't make him feel any better about putting her on the stand.

"Keri," he said, trying a different tack, "you know, we talked to the cab driver who took you and Jack McCoy to his building. He said that Jack passed out on the drive and had to be carried inside."

Dyson shrugged. "He was drunk. He came around when we got upstairs – and got aggressive with me. Just like I said."

"Okay," Cutter said. "I'm not sure if I'm going to call you tomorrow or not, so make sure you're at the courthouse, okay?"

"Okay," Dyson said. "Anything else?"

There wasn't. Connie walked her out, then came back into Cutter's office.

"Do you believe her?" she asked bluntly.

"Less and less," Cutter said, equally bluntly. "But I have no evidence that would prevent me putting her on the stand."

"How about this," Connie said. "I subpoenaed Jack's phone records. At 9.28 that night, a call was placed from his cell phone to the home number of a Dr Edward Margolis."

"The DA's Office 'in-house' physician," Cutter said, nodding. "Well, so he realized after he hit her how badly he'd hurt her and called for medical help."

"We don't know that," Connie said. "I'll call Margolis and – "

"No," Cutter said.

"But we need to know – Jesus, Mike, what if he can shed some light – "

"I don't want to know what light he can shed," Cutter said sharply. "I'm satisfied that whatever he has to say must be condemnatory, or else McCoy and Markham would have him on the witness list. No. We'll use the call to impeach McCoy if he takes the stand. That's it."

"Mike – "

"Whose side are you on, Connie?" Cutter asked sharply. "You saw McCoy in the courtroom – he doesn't even want to offer a defense. And I told you that he wanted to change his plea in chambers. He's guilty, and he knows it."

"I'm on the People's side," Connie said, but her tone was conciliatory. "I'm sorry, Mike, I don't mean to argue. I just – "

"Yeah," Cutter said. "I know. We don't have much besides outrage."

After Connie left, Cutter picked up his baseball bat and began to pace around the office. _A guilty plea before McCoy knew how weak our case was, that makes sense,_ he thought. _But after? How does that make sense?_

_He knows he's guilty. His conscience is getting to him_.

_Or he's worried about what else we might have._

Cutter swung idly. _Something worse than evidence proving his guilty, because he's prepared to admit his guilt._

_But it must be something that I could __**get**__ admitted as proof of guilt, because otherwise, he wouldn't be afraid of it coming into court. _

_Prior bad act? _Cutter frowned, resting the bat over his shoulders. _Dyson's allegation is that McCoy assaulted her when she refused his sexual advances. I __**could**__ argue for admission of prior acts under exception 704_.

He set the bat down against the wall and dropped into his desk chair, picking up his phone and dialing an extension. "Colleen," he said. "Can you send Jack McCoy's personnel file down to me, please?"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Cutter," Colleen Petraky said, not sounding the slightest bit sorry, "you're not authorized to view files outside the Narcotics Bureau."

"Who is authorized to view that file?" Cutter asked.

"Office protocols are clear, only supervisors can view staff files," Colleen said.

"So McCoy can view my file but I can't see his?"

"That's about the size of it, Mr. Cutter," Colleen said.

"Is Arthur in?" Cutter asked.

"He's gone for the evening," Colleen said.

"Okay, then, can I leave word for him to call me first thing in the morning?"

"Of course, Mr. Cutter," Colleen said.

Cutter hung up and shook the mouse on his computer to wake the machine. He clicked open the web browser.

_When in doubt, start with Google._

_

* * *

_

.oOo.


	25. Case Histories

Case Histories

* * *

_Abbie Carmichael's Townhouse_

_9 pm Thursday May 10__th__ 2007_

* * *

Regan leaned back in her chair, trying to listen to Danielle and Sally, barely able to focus her eyes, let alone her attention. Nora and Serena were both listening intently as the two defense attorneys ran through everything they had managed to find out about Keri Dyson.

She felt as tired as if she'd run two marathons back-to-back. _After all those trials sitting as second chair for Jack McCoy I thought I knew what it was about. _

_Boy, was I wrong!_

The tide of adrenaline had carried her through the afternoon, until the moment she had seen the door close behind the jury. Then fatigue had washed over her, bone-deep exhaustion that had made her want to lie down on the floor of the courtroom and sleep for a week. For a moment, Regan had thought that even getting to her feet and walking out of the courthouse would be beyond her.

Catching McCoy's gaze, she had seen a wry amusement in his eyes, as if nothing had changed between them, as if they were still McCoy and Markham, top of the Tenth Floor league.

The illusion could only last a second.

_Because __**everything**__ has changed. _

And she had known that it would before she had gotten to her feet in the restroom and laid down –

A tired smile quirked her lips. _Almost thought 'laid down the law'._

What she had laid down had been the opposite of the law. McCoy was right, it was more than enough to haul her in front of the Ethic Committee and have her disbarred.

She'd accused him of being a sore loser, once. _Only when I lose_, McCoy had snapped.

_Well, he lost today_.

_And Jack McCoy can't stand losing._

Not in court, not an argument, and certainly not control of the situation.

Regan had not been under any illusions that there would be no consequences. She had had no doubts what she was risking.

_But when your partner needs you, what you want or how you feel doesn't matter. _

_Even what you need. _

_Doesn't matter. _

"Regan!" Sally said sharply, and Regan realized that the other woman had been trying to get her attention for some time.

"Sorry," she said hastily. "Woolgathering."

"You have to focus here," Sally said.

"I know," Regan said, and stifled a yawn. "I need more coffee. Anyone else?"

Both Danielle and Serena nodded. Regan pushed herself to her feet and wandered out to the kitchen. She ran cold water and splashed it over her face before filling three mugs and taking them back to the dining room.

Not wanting to admit how far she had zoned out, Regan picked up Rey Curtis's report after she set down the coffee mugs and started reading, listening with half an ear to Sally's run-down of Keri's biggest prosecutions.

_Manhattan District Attorney's Office, Identity Fraud, ADA November 2005 – present_, Regan read.

_Manhattan District Attorney's Office, Appeals, ADA, August 2004 – November 2005_. That would have been her entry level position – most ADAs started in Appeals or Trials. _Long time to stay in Appeals, though_.

Regan looked back to Keri Dyson's position in the Identity Fraud Bureau. _She jumped three pay-grades when she got that transfer out of Appeals. _ _Must have written some solid briefs. _

_Norris, Wiesbrot and Norrell, Corporate Law, Attorney 2002-2004_. That was a good firm, but not one that gave a lot of junior lawyers to the DA's Office. _Decent pay for paper-pushing_, Regan thought . _Not trial work. _

_Bentley and Grafton, Attorney 2000-2002_. A much smaller firm, mainly suburban practice.

_George Whifley Esq, Attorney at Law, Junior Attorney 1999-2000_. Wills and probate, a sole practice, barely keeping afloat.

Regan flipped to Dyson's law school transcripts, paused, and flipped back.

"Sally," she said, interrupting the other women, "How did Keri do in Appeals?"

"Didn't make a mark," Sally said. "Good _or_ bad. Why?"

"Because …" Regan said, and then paused, marshalling her thoughts. "Look, she started out as a junior to a sole practitioner. Then after a year she moved to Bentley and Grafton, with a title bump and probably a salary increase to go with it. Then, two years later, she's at N.W.N. – with no experience in corporate law, and bare passing grades in Corporate at Hudson. Then from there she steps into the DA's Office, and I don't think there was anybody in my intake who wasn't either straight out of law school or out of a trial firm. How did Keri make the cut?"

"When I was there," Nora said, "We hired a couple of attorneys who had been working a while but didn't have any courtroom time. One who'd gone straight from law school to being a legislative aide to Nettie Mayersohn, and wanted to help us make the best use of the Victim Impact laws, another who'd wanted to join us after graduate school but had to take a job with regular hours when her mother got sick." She frowned thoughtfully, pursing her lips. "Neither of those files would have ended up on my desk if the two of them hadn't had rabbis."

"So did Keri have a rabbi?" Regan asked. "Because her transcripts aren't a lot better than mine and _I_ needed help getting my foot in the door. Who was pushing on Keri's behalf, and why?"

Danielle nodded. "Okay, something to think about."

"Well, add this," Regan said. "After being stuck in Appeals for more than a year – according to Sally, without leaving any impression – she then jumps three pay-grades into Identity Fraud." Regan closed the file and looked at Sally, then at Danielle. "I can't help being reminded that when she walked into Jack' s office last week, it was with that medical report and an offer to hold back on charges if he got her a transfer into Narcotics. And I can't help wondering if that was the _first_ time she ever made that kind of offer."

She held up the copy of the medical report Keri Dyson had brought to McCoy's office the previous Friday. "Jordan says there's no way he signed this last week. And the experts say it's his signature. What if they're both right? What if it isn't the signature that's forged, but the _date_?"

"We need to talk to everyone who hired her," Danielle said.

"And whoever got her file onto Arthur Branch's desk," Nora said.

"Put Curtis on getting current details," Serena said. "It's better if I – or one of you – make the contact. Lawyer to lawyer."

"You do it," Danielle said. "You used to be a prosecutor. And these guys – if Regan's right – "

"Victims of an unreported crime," Serena said, nodding. She picked up the file of Keri Dyson's work history. "I'll call Curtis now," she said, and headed for the kitchen with her cell phone.

"If we operate on the assumption that the original chart _was_ signed by Jordan and _was_ at Mercy," Sally said, "We can narrow it down to the years he worked there. I wonder if there's a police complaint to go with that black eye?"

"Dr Jordan told Serena he's been in Baltimore for four years," Danielle said.

"Okay, so prior to 2003," Sally said. "Do you have anyone you can reach out to in the DA's Office, Regan?"

"Who'd risk their career to go through old complaints files for Arthur Branch's two least favorite people?" Regan asked. "No."

"Who's taking lead on Dyson?" Danielle asked.

"Tracey Kibre," Regan said. "Do you know her?"

"She's kicked my ass on occasion," Danielle said with a wry laugh. "I'll give her a call in the morning and let her know that her defendant might have a history of prior bad acts that come under _Molineux_. If there's anything to find, Kibre will find it."

"In time?" Sally asked.

"She's no fool," Danielle said. "If Jack's convicted then it will be almost impossible for her to get the jury to say Keri Dyson's guilty. Her only chance of winning _her_ trial is for Cutter to _lose_ his."

"I'll call her," Nora said. "She and I – I wouldn't say we're _friends_, because Tracey doesn't have friends, but I can call her."

Regan nodded. "I wish we had more," she said glumly.

"We have more than we had this morning," Sally said. "This time tomorrow we'll have more still."

"What if Cutter puts Dyson on the stand tomorrow?" Regan asked.

"Press her on the medical report," Danielle said. "And listen carefully to Cutter on direct – you can't start pressing her on her history unless he opens the door for you."

"He won't," Regan said. "I was lucky today. If he had more actual evidence he would never have pressed on character – and I would never have been able to – "

"But he doesn't, and he did, and _you_ did," Sally said firmly. "Trials give you enough to worry about without fretting over what could have gone wrong, but didn't."

"How _did_ you get Jack to let you cross those witnesses, anyway?" Danielle asked, curious. "He was meek as a new-shorn lamb after the lunch break."

Regan snorted at the mental image of Jack McCoy as _any_ kind of lamb. "I threatened him," she said. "With a competency exam."

"You told him you'd call a 730 on him?" Sally asked with a gust of laughter that was half-disbelieving, half-appalled.

"What did Jack say to that?" Danielle asked.

"He made it pretty clear that the Ethics Committee is in my near future," Regan said, not meeting Danielle's gaze.

"Jesus, Regan, they'll suspend you!" Sally said. "You could even get disbarred!"

"I know," Regan said, and shrugged, gaze fixed on the papers in front of her. "But if I win, it'll be worth it. And if I lose – it won't matter."

"Regan– " Sally started.

"Sally, why don't you see how Serena's doing?" Danielle said.

When Sally had left the room, Danielle leaned forward and put her hand over Regan's. "You're in pretty deep, aren't you?" she said softly.

Regan pulled her hand free. "I don't know what you mean by that," she said stiffly.

"Yes you do," Danielle said steadily. "Regan. Look at me."

Reluctantly, Regan met the other woman's gaze, then looked away from the keen perception she saw there.

"Whatever happens in the courtroom," Danielle said, "You need to think about what's going to happen to _you_. Win, lose, or draw."

"I can't afford to do that right now," Regan said. "I have to think about winning. I _have_ to win. That's it. That's all."

"I don't know what's between you and Jack – " Danielle said.

"Nothing," Regan said quickly. "He's been a good friend to me. When I needed a friend. That's all."

"He's not a man who forgives," Danielle said. "What he sees as betrayal – he's not a man who forgives."

"I know," Regan whispered. "I _do_ know, Danielle."

"Are you willing to keep him out of jail at the cost of losing your – _friendship_?" Danielle said. "Not to mention your job, your license, your career?"

Regan took a breath, and met Danielle's unwavering gaze. "All of that," she said steadily. "And more."

This time it was Danielle who looked away. "Well," she said, with a little laugh, "god send us all such friends, eh?"

* * *

.oOo.


	26. One Of A Kind

**One Of A Kind**_  
_

* * *

_Abbie Carmichael's Townhouse_

_7am Friday May 11__th__ 2007_

* * *

_God send us all such friends_.

The words echoed in Regan's head when she woke the next morning in a sweaty tangle of sheets, fragments of a fading nightmare about One Hogan Place and _screaming_ clinging persistently to the edge of her mind.

She rolled over and looked at the clock. _Five am_. She felt as if she'd barely slept. Danielle had sent her to bed at midnight, reminding her that she needed to be sharp for court. Swinging her feet to the floor, Regan rubbed gritty eyes and yawned. _So much for that idea. _

A shower and coffee restored her a little. She sat down at Abbie's dining room table, now covered with files and notes, and tried to concentrate on the day ahead, a day that would probably bring Keri Dyson's testimony. _And, please God, will bring something conclusive and damning __**about**__ Keri Dyson from Rey Curtis and Serena Southerlyn._

A sudden cold thought seized her, recollection of McCoy's abrupt exit from the courtroom yesterday. _He's not a man who forgives_. What if McCoy turned up at the courthouse today prepared to dismiss his lawyer?

_He has every legal right to do it_.

And she'd given him enough provocation.

Panic seized her. Barely pausing to push the notes she'd need for the day into her briefcase, she grabbed her jacket and hurried out into the street, hailing the first cab she saw and giving the cabbie McCoy's address.

Outside his door, she rang the bell and waited. As she was about to ring it again she heard the lock snib back and the door opened.

_He clearly slept as badly as I did_, Regan thought when she saw McCoy. Early as it was, he was up and dressed except for his suit jacket and tie. He looked at her silently.

"Can I come in?" she asked as the uncomfortable silence stretched.

Still unspeaking, McCoy stepped back to let her through the door.

As he closed it behind her Regan looked around. The apartment was far neater than it had been on Sunday. The piles of books and papers that had littered the living room were gone, and a pile of boxes was stacked against the wall. Regan took a step toward them, reading the notations scrawled on their sides in McCoy's handwriting. _Law Journals – 2004_ was written on one, _Cybercrime_ on another.

_He's packing_, she realized.

Not packing to move.

_Packing so everything can be stored while he's in jail. _

The realization hurt, a little twisting pain in her chest that made it hard to breathe. _Oh, Jack_. She could imagine him working late into the night, filling boxes with all the accoutrements of his career, his _life_, alone in his apartment with his fear of the future and a face-down picture of Claire Kincaid. _Oh, Jack. _

"What do you want?" McCoy asked harshly behind her, and Regan turned to see him regarding her with an unreadable expression.

"To talk to you about today," she said. "Cutter's likely to call Dyson this morning. I want to make sure you understand I'm going to go hard on cross."

"You made that clear yesterday," McCoy said. He rubbed his hand over his face. "You want coffee?" he asked abruptly.

"Yeah," Regan said, surprised at the hospitality. He turned without another word and went to the kitchen.

Regan took a few steps further into the living room. She ran her fingers over the shelves of the bookcase, mostly empty now, and picked up the framed photograph that still lay there, face down.

_That nice young woman, Claire Kincaid_, Mrs. Farr had called her, and said _I hear him, sometimes. Walking around that apartment at three in the morning._

_Rescuing the suffering outlaw only pans out in the movies_ …

Regan looked down at Claire Kincaid's laughing face. _**You**__ would have rescued him,_ she thought. _If you'd had enough time. _

_If you'd been here none of this would have happened. Jack wouldn't have been drinking with Keri. Even if Keri __**had**__ slipped him a mickey, you would never have let him leave with her. And even if he had, you would never have let him persuade you to file the charges. You would never have let him believe he was guilty. You would never – _

No, Claire Kincaid would never have made any of the mistakes Regan had made.

_Sorry,_ she thought. _I've let him down all along the way. I've screwed this up, big-time. Sorry. _

She couldn't see accusation in Claire's eyes – but she couldn't see forgiveness either.

_It's a damn photograph, girl! _her Gran-Da's scratchy voice said. _You losing your mind? _

_Yeah, Gran-Da. For example, old dead lawmen are talking to me_, Regan thought.

Hearing McCoy in the hall, she put the photograph back as it had been and turned away from the bookcase.

"What are you going to do with these?" she asked McCoy, indicating the boxes.

He shrugged, careful not to spill the coffee, and handed one mug to her. "I'm sure they'll be useful to someone," he said.

Regan looked back at the bookcase, noticing a couple of novels still left on the shelves beside a photo album. "And this stuff?"

"Lisbeth – my sister – can store a few things for me," McCoy said. He sipped his coffee. "I'm not sure what to do with the bike. My nephew would love it – but Lisbeth wouldn't."

Regan opened her mouth to tell him about Keri Dyson's work history and her speculation about it, then paused, remembering how angrily dismissive he had been of her idea about GHB. What had he said to Serena? _The last argument of a desperate and incompetent lawyer – my client was framed._

She was just too tired for an argument she could put off for a little while longer, too tired to break the fragile and tentative truce between them.

_It might come to nothing_, she rationalized. _I shouldn't get his hopes up, when it might come to nothing._

McCoy cleared his throat, interrupting Regan's thoughts. "I've been meaning to ask you," he said. "Can I have my keys back?"

Regan blinked. _Keys_. She'd had them since she'd stayed here, that cold January weekend McCoy had discovered just how shabby her accommodation was. He hadn't asked for them back, and Regan hadn't offered, even after Branch's warning had made it clear that there could be nothing more between Regan and McCoy than professional camaraderie. Returning the keys would say – Regan hadn't let herself think about _what_ returning the keys would say, and why she wasn't willing to say it.

She didn't think about it now as she fished the keys out of her pocket. "Here," she said past the irrational lump in her throat.

"The landlord will need all three sets," McCoy explained, not moving to take the keys from her hand.

"You're really planning for me to lose, aren't you?" Regan said. She set the keys on the bookshelf, beside the photo album.

"I'm looking at the evidence," McCoy said. "You've got to learn to do that, Regan, look at the evidence, not look for what you _wish_ was there."

Regan nodded, not trusting her voice, and turned away so he couldn't see her face. Looking for a distraction, she took the photo album off the shelf and opened it, looking for the picture she remembered, Jack McCoy aged three, with a shock of hair and a cheeky grin.

The album fell open at a picture of a big man in a police uniform a few decades out-of-date, broad-shouldered, feet planted firmly on the ground as if to keep the earth subdued, one huge hand enveloping the shoulder of the skinny boy at his side, a boy whose young face already showed traces of Jack McCoy's distinctive features. _Father and son_, Regan thought, for the way they stood together made the relationship clear, even though she couldn't see any resemblance in their faces. She peered more closely at the photograph, looking for some trace of the adult Jack McCoy she knew in his father. _Nothing_. She looked again at the boy dwarfed by his father. _If the child is father to the man_, she thought, _then the boy in this picture is where the man I know comes from. _He didn't look like the kind of boy who'd grow up to be a tough alpha lawyer, the DA's junk-yard dog, as he stared solemnly at the camera. _He looks …_

_He looks as if he has a black eye_.

She looked again at the way they stood, father and son, the way the man's big hand held his son's shoulder, the way the son stood straight and braced and tense.

Regan turned a page, turned another. She saw a picture of a woman who must be Jack McCoy's mother, face turned away from the camera in an attempt to hide the healing scab of a split lip, turned the page and saw a teenage Jack McCoy with a cast on his wrist.

"Do we really have time for you to be looking at old photographs?" McCoy asked testily.

Regan turned to look at him, the album still open in her hands, and wondered if she had really heard the edge of anxiety in his voice or just imagined it. "Maybe I need to _make_ the time," she said. Turning another page brought her to a picture of Jack McCoy as a graduating senior, smiling for the camera despite a bruised and swollen lip.

What had he said to her in the car on the way home from Carthage? At the time Regan had been preoccupied with her struggle with her own history, but McCoy's words came back to her now with a keener edge. _These terrible old men who shape our lives. Men we can't live up to, can't live down. You didn't turn into him? Maybe you're stronger than he was._

She shut the album. "Maybe we both need to take a trip down memory lane," she said evenly.

McCoy shook his head but Regan didn't give him a chance to speak.

"I've been racking my brains, trying to work out why you're so set on getting in the way of your own defense," she said, keeping her voice calm and steady. She held the album out to him. "And this is why, isn't it?"

"They're just old photographs," McCoy snapped. "And they're none of your business."

"Old photographs of things that you wouldn't think could stay a secret," Regan said, remembering his words to her the previous Sunday, his sudden anger. "But that did, right, Jack? For how long?"

"Forever," McCoy said. He met her gaze, looking defiant, looking defeated. "I'm not going to talk about this, Regan. I _never_ talk about this."

_The child is father to the man_. Jack 'Hang 'em High' McCoy, brilliant, demanding, intemperate, passionate in the pursuit of justice – and an eight year old boy who had to steel himself to stand next to his father.

_A boy who saw his mother beaten. _

_These terrible old men we can't live down…_

_Her story stacks up_, McCoy had said, not meeting her eyes.

It all made sense, at last, in a way too painful not to be true. _Oh, Jack_.

_Guilt is like water_, Skoda had said. _It finds the lowest level_.

_And when it gets too deep, you can drown. _

Regan laid the album back on the shelf, beside the face-down picture of Claire Kincaid.

Claire Kincaid, who would have known what to say to McCoy right at this moment, who would have had the right to say it, because she loved him and he loved her, because she was _amazing_, and _astonishing_.

_Oh, Jack_.

"I understand," Regan said quietly. She turned back to face him, knowing then with a certainty beyond her best denial, that what was between them would never be only professional, not for her.

_You're in pretty deep, aren't you?_ Danielle's words, but an old man's scratchy voice. _Over your head, girl. _

_Did you ever learn to swim? _

_Too late to ask __**that**__ question, Gran-Da._

"I understand," Regan said again. "You're not going to talk about it. So listen. My father was a drunk with a gambling problem, and I can put twenty dollars and a shot of scotch on the table for a poker game and walk away when they're both gone. Not everything comes down through the generations."

"Thanks for your homespun wisdom," McCoy said acerbically.

Regan paused. "Are we going to be like this, now?" she asked softly. "Because of yesterday? Is this what we're going to be like?"

"What did you expect?" McCoy demanded. "An attagirl?"

"No, I guess this is just about exactly what I expected," Regan said, trying to smile, trying to sound as if she didn't care.

She realized she had failed at both when McCoy sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. "Look," he said, his tone more conciliatory, "I know what it's like to want to win. I know how easy it is to go too far. You got carried away. Let's leave it at that."

Tempting as it was to nod and agree, Regan said: "No. We can't leave it at that. Because I'm going to go as hard today as yesterday, I'm going to do everything legally permissible to get you acquitted. I didn't get 'carried away'. I made a decision – a decision to stop letting you hang yourself."

"You have to understand – " McCoy said angrily.

Regan cut him off. "I _understand _that every piece of hard evidence I have points to you being framed. I _understand_ that Keri Dyson's plan was not to lay charges but to blackmail you for a promotion. And I _understand _that you are _**not**_ your father." McCoy opened his mouth, scowling, and Regan cut him off. "And maybe _you_ should understand that you aren't the only person in the gun here."

McCoy drew breath for an angry reply, and then let it out on a sigh.

"I shouldn't have got you involved in this," he said, sinking down onto the couch. "I didn't think – I didn't think about what it would mean, for you. Just – when I saw that file, when I saw Keri's face, I couldn't think who – except for you. That I could rely on you. That I could trust you."

"You _can_ trust me," Regan said, sitting beside him.

"Just not to do as you're told," McCoy said with an attempt at a smile.

"Not when you're telling me to do something stupid," Regan said.

"I'm sorry," McCoy said. "For getting you involved. For putting you – for all of it. All of it."

"Jack, it's okay," Regan said. "You remember, I told you – I'll find a way to meet the cost of any check you need to write." She laid her hand over his. "It's going to be okay. We're going to win."

"I'm not used to having quite so much at _risk_ in the courtroom," McCoy said with a wry smile. "The last time was when Claire was trying to clear my name by nailing Diana Hawthorne for concealing exculpatory evidence."

"I bet she did just great," Regan said.

"She was pretty good," McCoy said, smiling at the memory.

"I'll try to be as good," Regan said.

"Oh, Claire was one of a kind," McCoy said offhandedly, getting to his feet. He held out his hand for Regan's mug, and she gave it to him. "Never knew anyone like her, before or since."

As he took the mugs into the kitchen, Regan pushed herself to her feet and once more picked up the photograph of Claire Kincaid. _One of a kind_.

"We should get going," McCoy said from the hall. Regan turned to see him with his jacket on, tying his tie as he spoke.

"Do you want me to put this back for you?" Regan asked, holding the picture up.

"No," McCoy said shortly. "Leave it."

Regan looked down at Claire Kincaid_, one of a kind, astonishing, amazing. _"If you tell me why," she said softly.

"I don't have to explain myself to – " McCoy started to say, taking an angry step toward her.

"You don't have to," Regan interrupted. "But I'm asking you to."

He stopped, and shook his head wordlessly. Regan waited, the photo in her hands.

"I could always tell when she was disappointed in me," McCoy said at last. "She used to look at me with this – this _accusation_ in her eyes. She never had to say a word. And I can't – I can't look at her accusing me. This – I read Keri Dyson's affidavit too, Regan. It happened – just there, in the hall. I can just imagine what she'd have thought, seeing it. Leave the picture where it was."

"I can't see any accusation, Jack," Regan said, pretending to study the picture. "Whatever happened in the hall, it wasn't what Keri said. I know that. And so does _she_." She held the photograph up for him to look at. "If she's disappointed at anything, it's at you letting yourself get spun around and twisted up by this."

"She doesn't know anything," McCoy said softly. "She's dead. It's just a photo."

Regan thought for a moment she'd bet higher than her cards could justify but she hadn't played years of squad room poker for nothing. She looked him dead in the eye.

"Then put it back on the wall."

He drew a breath, anger flashing in his eyes, and Regan braced herself for a sharp retort. Then, to her surprise, he let the air out of his lungs gently, took the photo from her hands, and hung it back in its place on the wall.

As Regan steered him out of the apartment, she glanced back at Claire Kincaid, restored to pride of place. _Maybe I can't look after him as well as you would have_, she thought, _I'm not as good a lawyer, I'm not one-of-a-kind, and nobody's ever been astonished or amazed by __**me**_**.**

_But I'll do my best, anyway. _

_I'm not you, Claire, and I can't pretend to be. But I'll do the best that __**I**__ can._

.oOo.

* * *

A/N: McCoy's line about being a sore loser was originally in episode "Jeopardy".


	27. Evidence

Evidence

* * *

_Serena Southerlyn's House_

_8 am Friday May 11__th__ 2007_

* * *

"I'm late," Megan Wheeler said, sliding off her stool and cramming the last of her toast into her mouth. "Gotta go." She planted a quick kiss on Serena's cheek and headed for the door.

Serena heard her open the front door, then a man's voice.

"Is this Ms Southerlyn's house? I'm Rey Curtis, she's expecting me – "

"Yeah, she's in the kitchen," Megan said. "On the left. I'd take you through, but I'm late."

"No problem," Curtis said.

Serena heard the front door close, and she started toward the hall. She and Curtis nearly collided in the doorway.

"Ms Southerlyn?" he said.

"Please, call me Serena," she said, holding out her hand. Curtis took it, his grasp firm but not crushing. "Do you want coffee?"

"Thank you, I'd appreciate it," Curtis said.

Serena poured them both mugs full, taking the opportunity to study Rey Curtis. Regan Markham had described him as a "long tall cup of chocolaty goodness" and Serena could see why. Regan had also said that he came with Lennie Briscoe's recommendation, which meant he had been good at his job when he was a police detective. _And reliable and trustworthy. _

She put the mugs on the kitchen island along with milk and sugar.

"Your roommate is on the job?" Curtis asked, adding sugar to his coffee.

"My who?" Serena asked.

"The redhead. She's on the job, right? I saw her badge." Curtis sipped his coffee, watching her over the rim of his mug. _Weighing me up just as much as I'm weighing him. _

"Oh, Megan," Serena said. "She's not my roommate. She's my girlfriend."

"Your – girlfriend," Curtis said.

"Partner," Serena said, holding his gaze. "Lover. Girlfriend."

"Okay," Curtis said noncommittally.

"Is that a problem for you?" Serena challenged.

"Not at all," Curtis said. "What people do in their own homes is none of my business."

Serena gave a little mental sigh, but she stopped herself giving Rey Curtis a short sharp lecture on the difference between 'tolerance' and 'acceptance'. _We have work to do_.

"I'll call Nora," she said instead. "See if she's made that call to Tracey Kibre yet."

Nora had. Tracey had gone down to the Complaints Room herself and searched the old files. "And there _was_ a complaint, June 2000, against one Harold Grafton, but Keri dropped the charges two days later."

"Harold Grafton of Bentley and Grafton?" Serena asked.

"I think that's a reasonable assumption," Nora said.

"Did you find out who her rabbi was?" Serena asked.

"Thomas Fellows, senior ADA in Trial Bureau, recommended her to Arthur Branch," Nora said.

"I'll talk to him," Serena said.

"And to Nick Cherry, he runs Identity Fraud now, he gave her that promotion when he brought her into his bureau," Nora said.

"Rey Curtis has the contact details for her other hires," Serena said, looking at Curtis as she spoke. He nodded. "I'll talk to all of them."

She hung up and turned to Curtis. "Regan Markham said you were going to reach out to somebody at Mercy and try and get to the bottom of this forged report?"

"There's a lady who works in Records there who's done me the occasional favor," Curtis said. "I arrested her husband back in the day."

"And she does you favors?" Serena asked.

"I arrested him for beating on her and her kids," Curtis said with a smile. "She's been off a couple of days with the 'flu but she should be back today."

"Then let's go talk to her," Serena said.

Rey Curtis's contact in the Records section of Mercy General was a middle-aged Hispanic woman with short, curly hair streaked with grey. Her face lit up when Curtis came through the door.

"Detective Curtis!" she said with delight.

"Anna, I've told you, I'm not a detective any more. When are you going to start calling me Rey?"

"I don't want to make the other women here jealous, being on first name terms with such a handsome man," the woman said.

Curtis chuckled. "Anna, this is a friend of mine, Serena Southerlyn. Serena, this is Anna Milgano."

"I'm pleased to meet you," Serena said.

"Anna, Serena and I are working together on a case," Curtis said. "We're trying to find out the truth about something, and I hope that maybe you can help us."

"The truth about what?" Anna asked.

"About whether a woman was treated at this hospital," Curtis said.

Anna frowned. "Detective Curtis, you know patient records are confidential."

Serena took the copy of Keri Dyson's medical file out of her briefcase and laid it on the counter. "Ms Milgano," she said, "This woman, Keri Dyson, has alleged that she was assaulted last Thursday. She's charged a senior prosecutor with the District Attorney's Office. He's on trial right now, and if he's found guilty he won't just go to jail. He'll lose his job, his bar license – his whole life. This file is her evidence that she was attacked – and we _know_ it's a forgery. I'm not asking you to tell us anything about her, about her treatment. We just need to know if the original of this copy is in your files in June 2000."

Anna looked at the file, hesitating, and Serena opened it to the hospital chart. "Signed by Dr Rob Jordan," she said. "Who hasn't worked at this hospital for years."

"I'm not allowed to tell you anything," Anna said.

"I know," Curtis said. "But it would really help us if we could find out if there is an original file, that this is a copy of. This woman laid police charges for assault in June 2000. We think that maybe she used the medical records from back then to make a copy and change the date. It would really help us, Anna."

Anna Milgano hesitated again, and then turned away from the counter without saying anything. Serena felt her shoulders sag in disappointment. She opened her mouth to make another plea, and Rey Curtis put his hand on her arm.

"Wait," he said softly.

Anna went to the bank of filing cabinets that covered the back wall of the room, running her fingers down the drawers until she reached one marked _May-June 2000_. She opened the drawer and leafed through the files, taking one out and opening it.

Serena held her breath as the woman studied the file.

Turning back to the counter, the file still in her hands, the Anna said: "I'm sorry, but you know, there's just no way I can disclose information about patients." She put the file down, open, on her desk. "I'm parched," she said. "I'm going to go out and get a drink of water from the fountain in the hall. I'll probably be about five minutes."

Serena and Curtis watched her walk out of the room.

"Hold the door," Curtis said, and Serena hurried to stand against the door, hand on the knob, to slow down anyone coming in. Curtis reached over the counter and grabbed the file from Anna's desk, pulling a camera out of his pocket with his other hand. "Bingo," he said with quiet satisfaction, quickly taking pictures of each page, and then putting the file back where it had been. He picked up their copy of Dyson's forged file as Serena stepped back from the door.

They passed Anna Milgano in the hall. She gave them a quick sideways glance, but didn't say a word.

Serena contained her curiosity until they were outside the hospital and back in Curtis's car.

"What did the file show?" she demanded.

Curtis took the camera back out of his pocket and set it to 'review'. "It's the same file," he said with quiet satisfaction. "Look – it's identical in every detail – except for the date."

Serena compared the images on the digital camera to the file for herself, seeing that Curtis was right.

"We've got to get this to the courthouse," she said.

"I'm not a lawyer," Curtis said, "But I spent enough time in courtrooms to know that's not going to be admissible as evidence of _anything_."

Serena nodded. "But if Regan knows about it, she can try and trip Keri Dyson on the stand – "

"Then ring and tell her," Curtis said. "But most of the lawyers I ever worked with were only happy to _see_ you when you had something they could show a jury. So while you phone, I'll drive."

"To where?" Serena asked, taking out her cell. About to dial Regan's number, she realized that Regan would be in the courtroom by now, and punched in Danielle Melnick's cell number instead.

"First stop, Harold Grafton," Curtis said.

.oOo.


	28. Admissible Admissions

**Admissible Admissions**

* * *

_Trial Part 3_

_Supreme Court 100 Centre St _

_2.45 pm Friday May 11__th__ 2007_

* * *

Regan cut her eyes to the courtroom clock, checking the time while maintaining the appearance of diligent attention to Mike Cutter's questions as far as the jury was concerned. Already mid-afternoon and Cutter was still showing no sign of calling Keri Dyson to the stand.

_**Already**__ mid-afternoon,_ Regan thought with an internal groan. She felt as if the day had been going for weeks, a parade of inconsequential witnesses who she would not even have bothered to call if she had been prosecuting. Other ADAs who had been at the bar – the bar-tender – Regan listened to Cutter's questions and cross-examined the witnesses, feeling as if neither prosecution nor defense were making much headway.

Not only had Cutter not called Keri Dyson, but he had not produced the originals of the medical records Keri Dyson had brought into Jack McCoy's office as evidence.

After Danielle had passed on Serena's message, Regan knew _why_ Cutter couldn't produce the originals. What she _didn't _know was whether Cutter knew about the forgeries.

In Judge Wright's chambers, Cutter had claimed that Keri Dyson had refused to give a waiver to give the DA's Office access to her records at Mercy General. _Either he's telling the truth_, Regan thought, _or he's deliberately withholding exculpatory evidence. _

Mike Cutter's reputation for hardball not-withstanding, Regan didn't think he'd lie to the judge. _So Keri's lying to him. _And something about the way his gaze shifted when he told the judge about Keri's refusal to grant a waiver gave Regan the impression that Mike Cutter was beginning to suspect it.

Judge Wright had been decidedly unimpressed by Cutter's failure to produce the original documents – especially since Cutter had been forced to admit that the DA's investigators had confirmed Rob Jordan's story. The doctor _had_ been in Baltimore that night, not at Mercy General. He could not possibly have treated Keri Dyson.

Regan had suggested the copy Keri Dyson had given the DA's Office be sent to the experts in the document lab at One Police Plaza for thorough examination. _Not just the signature_, she'd urged. _The whole of the documents. Including the dates._

Both Wright and Cutter had picked up on that. The judge had wanted to know what she based her suspicions on, and he'd been sternly disapproving when she prevaricated. _You're not doing yourself or your case any good, Ms Markham_, he'd warned, but Regan had weighed his disapprobation against admitting Rey Curtis had gained illegal access to hospital records, and kept quiet.

Mike Cutter had said nothing, but from time to time in the courtroom Regan had caught his gaze to find him watching her speculatively. _He's guessed how Keri forged the records_, she concluded. _I tipped my hand too far – not that I had much choice – and now he's wondering how __**I**__ know. _

She glanced at the clock again. _Three thirty_. _Will this day ever end? _

_Too late for Cutter to call Dyson now. He must be saving her for Monday._

_Or he's going to close without putting her on the stand. _

That wouldn't be good. Although the prosecution case would be weaker without the victim's testimony, so too the defense would be weaker with Keri Dyson in the jury's mind as an absent but honest victim. _I need to show them she's lying. _And without the chance to impeach her on the stand, Regan would be hamstrung in what she could say in closing argument about Keri's honesty – or lack of it.

_All I'd be able to do is draw the jury's attention to the fact that she didn't testify – not speculate as to why not. _

"Regan," Danielle whispered urgently behind her.

Regan turned in her chair to see Serena Southerlyn crouching in the aisle beside Danielle's chair. At the back of the courtroom, she could see Rey Curtis standing near the door.

"Get a recess," Danielle said. "You need to hear this right away."

Regan nodded. As she turned back to the front of the courtroom Cutter finished his questioning of a young narcotics ADA and sat down.

"Your honor, can I ask for a brief recess?" Regan asked.

"Will you have questions for this witness?" Wright asked.

Regan hesitated. "No, your honor," she said, making up her mind. "The repetitive nature of the prosecution's – "

"That's enough, Ms Markham," Wright said. "Although I take your point." He looked at the clock, frowning. "Mr. Cutter, I note you have only one witness left on your list. Are you planning on calling her this afternoon?"

Cutter rose to his feet. "No, your honor, I planned to suggest that Monday – "

"Noted. All right, everybody, court is adjourned until Monday morning. Mr. Cutter, Ms Markham, a word before you go."

Regan leaned over to McCoy as Cutter started toward the bench and the jury began to file out. "Don't go anywhere," she said, worried he would repeat yesterday's speedy exit from the courtroom.

"You want me to sit here and wait for the reporters?" McCoy asked acidly, with a pointed glance to the back of courtroom where the journalists who had been watching proceedings were already pressing forward.

"Case Conference Seven," Danielle said to them both. "Sally finished early and she's waiting for us there."

"I'll meet you," Regan said, and then as Wright cleared his throat she hurried after Cutter.

"Mr. Cutter, I hope you're planning on introducing some actual evidence on Monday," Wright said warningly. "And I hope your associate has delivered the contested documents to One Police Plaza."

"She has, your honor," Cutter said. "But there is a considerable backlog of work. The lab won't be able to report until – "

"You will have a report for me in chambers on Monday morning," Wright said, "or we will stand adjourned until you do. Am I clear?"

"Yes, your honor," Cutter said, subdued.

"And you, Ms Markham," Wright said. "I don't like lawyers who play ambush in my courtroom. You better not be planning to introduce something you should have mentioned in chambers this morning."

"Your honor," Regan said, "I can honestly say that there is nothing I know at this time that I have any intention of introducing as evidence in this courtroom."

Wright stared at her with narrowed eyes. "That's less categorical than I would like, Ms Markham. You chose your words as carefully as – "

"As a lawyer, your honor?" Regan asked with a bland smile.

"Exactly," Wright said sourly. "You're fortunate that your colleague at the prosecution table has been sailing so close to the wind. I'm inclined to give you similar leeway."

"Thank you, your honor," Regan said.

"Monday morning, Mr. Cutter," Wright said. "Or else."

Regan glanced at Cutter as they walked back to their respective tables. He was frowning slightly, looking, she thought, troubled.

"Ms Markham! Ms Markham! Mr. Cutter!" the reporters started calling as the two lawyers reached the bar, their voices blending into a cacophony of questions. "How's the trial going, Mr. Cutter? Can you tell us what the judge was saying? Is Jack McCoy innocent, Ms Markham? How do you feel the trial is going? When are you going to call Keri Dyson, Mr. Cutter? Are you – "

"I have no comment on a matter currently _sub judice_," Cutter said, picking up his briefcase. He opened the bar gate and began to force his way through the throng.

Regan grabbed her own briefcase and followed him, trying to keep her face neutrally pleasant and not look evasive as cameras and microphones were poked in her face. "No comment," she said, over and over again. "No comment." As the reporters pressed in on her she found herself disoriented, unable to see the room beyond the glare of television lights. A journalist pushed another to try and get closer, causing a domino reaction that sent Regan staggering.

Suddenly a hand seized her arm.

"No comment," Mike Cutter said firmly, hauling Regan after him toward the exit, shouldering a particularly aggressive cameraman out of the way. "No comment. No comment."

The media scrum moved with them to the doors, but fell back as Cutter pulled Regan after him into the hallway. The courtroom doors shut behind them, cutting off the shouted questions.

"I thought they can't film in the courtroom," Regan said, shaken.

"They can't film the _trial_," Cutter said. "And they can't film in chambers, or case conference, or – ironically – the corridors. But they can mob you on your way up the aisle after the trial is adjourned, and then again on the steps outside. And you're welcome, by the way."

"Thanks," Regan said belatedly. "I wasn't – I've never been in that kind of – Jesus, no wonder celebrities snap!"

Cutter chuckled. "No question, there's plenty of interest for _People v McCoy_," he said. "I've tried some high-profile drug cases in my time, but I've never seen anything like this." Regan shook her head in bewilderment, and Cutter snorted. "Oh, come _on_, Ms Markham, you can't be surprised. Jack McCoy's made plenty of headlines in his time and he's talked about as Arthur's successor in some circles. He's spent three decades being New York's self-appointed moral guardian and now he's been shown to have feet of clay. _That's_ news."

"You're talking as if he's been convicted," Regan snapped back. "You haven't won yet, Mr. Cutter. Maybe the story is going to be how an ambitious young ADA cut one too many corners in his race to the top and came comprehensively unstuck."

Cutter hesitated, then looked around to make sure they were unobserved, and took her arm again, pulling her to a corner. "Look," he said, quiet and intense, "I know you have something. You must think it's a magic bullet, or you wouldn't be so confident. You know and I know that whatever the police lab says, those medical records stink like five-day-old fish. Tell me what you've got."

"You want a preview of my case, counselor?" Regan asked.

"You ambush me, I'll scream to high heaven," Cutter warned.

"Why don't you tell _me_ something," Regan countered. "You know those records aren't real. And – " Light dawned. "And you _know_ Keri Dyson's lying. That's why you won't put her on the stand! You can't put her on the stand without running foul of EC 7-26, can you?"

Cutter said nothing, and that _nothing_ was an admission.

"Then why in hell are you still prosecuting?" Regan demanded. "DR 7 – "

"I know what DR 7-103 says," Cutter said. "And first of all, Ms Markham, it's about _instituting_ charges, not continuing them. And secondly – I don't have any reason to believe these charges are unsupported. Oh – " he raised his hand to cut her off as she opened her mouth to speak and she fell silent. "I know that there are some holes in my witness's story. I know that I _don't_ know what happened that night. But I do know one thing, Ms Markham."

"And what's that?" she demanded.

"I know your client would have pled to the charges if he'd followed his own inclination," Cutter said. "So, Ms Markham, I may not know exactly what happened, and I admit, I'm going to have some trouble proving my case, but I do know, for sure and certain, that Jack McCoy is a guilty man."

.oOo.

* * *

A/N: EC 7-26 is that part of the 'Code of Professional Responsibility' that prohibits the use of 'fraudulent, false, or perjured testimony or evidence', while DR 7-103 states that 'A public prosecutor or other government lawyer shall not institute or cause to be instituted criminal charges when he or she knows or it is obvious that the charges are not supported by probable cause.'

As far as media in the courtroom is concerned, I have tried to be consistent with what's shown in various episodes in L&O, which are not all consistent with each other and are generally _not_ consistent with the state of the law in New York State. So, for example, in 'Blaze' it's a matter of some controversy that witness testimony be filmed; in an episode featuring Jamie Ross, McCoy and Jamie have to force their way out of the courtroom through a mob of reporters.


	29. Poison Fruit

A.N.: I apologize for taking so long to finish this story, and thank you to all of you who have stuck with it, and left reviews.

* * *

**Poison Fruit**

* * *

_Conference Room Seven _

_Supreme Court 100 Centre St _

_4pm Friday May 11 2007_

* * *

"Can we get this over with?" Jack McCoy asked.

"Wait for Regan," Serena said. To someone else, Serena might have seemed her usual cool and expressionless self, but McCoy had worked with her for too many years to be taken in. He could tell she was barely able to sit still with excitement, although being Serena that excitement found expression only in the restless tapping of one finger on the side of her chair. Danielle, Sally and Nora stood by the window, Danielle telling Sally quietly about the day's testimony.

McCoy ran his fingers through his hair and then leaned back in his chair and folded his arms, debating with himself whether or not to simply walk out. The day had been another ordeal of listening to Mike Cutter's insinuations and Regan's cross-examination, designed to cast doubt in the jurors' minds but as far as McCoy was concerned, only drawing out the trial and delaying the inevitable. He hadn't tried to stop her. _She made it clear yesterday that __**that**__ wasn't an option. _And he didn't have the heart for another knock-down, drag-out argument with Regan. Last night, lying awake, he'd been haunted as much by the memory of Regan, whey-faced and trembling, as by his imagination of what he'd done to Keri Dyson.

When sleep had come at last, it had brought no rest. In his dreams, McCoy had walked the corridors of the Supreme Court building, hearing Abbie weeping behind the closed doors of the courtrooms he passed, until he came to the door of the women's restroom. For a long time he had stood looking at it, knowing in the hazy way of dreams that he would find Regan behind it, dreading seeing what he'd done to her, knowing that he couldn't turn away.

But when he had opened the door he had seen, not Regan Markham, but Claire Kincaid – Claire as she had been the last time he had seen her, wearing her dark coat. Her eyes were shadowed from a sleepless night, just as they had been that morning, and just like that morning he could see the disappointment and the accusation in them.

She had not been able to understand how he did not share her revulsion and despair at the deliberate taking of a life, had thought she could persuade him, had argued her case with passion and logic and the best legal authorities – and he had never been able to resist the opportunity to argue, had never been able to resist the need to win.

In his dream, he could see as clearly as he had that day so long ago that she was losing faith in her power to make him the man she believed he could be – the man he had tried to be, for her, a man who was certainly a better man than the one he had been when he met her.

Knowing he was dreaming, he was still desperately glad to see her, and at the same time angry. _Why __**this **__moment? _he wondered. _When it's been so long since I've seen her, in dreams or in memory, why __**this**__ moment, why can't I see her when she was happy, when she loved me, when she believed in me? _

But he had learnt, in all the years since she had left him behind, to take what he could get, and so he had held out his arms to her and whispered her name. And she had come to him, wound her arms around his neck and pressed her slender body against his, just for a moment warm and real.

Then she had raised her head from his shoulder and leaned back to look at him with those huge, accusing eyes, had pressed her hand against his cheek and told him _You're not the man I knew, Jack McCoy. _

That had been the end of sleep for McCoy last night.

And when Regan had turned up at his door, the shadows beneath her eyes and the defeated slump of her shoulders had told him she was as tired as he was. _Too tired to fight_.

He'd never thought that could be possible, that he could be too tired to argue, too tired for anger, but Regan's offered truce had not roused the instinct to attack at the sign of weakness. McCoy had felt only relief.

Even her trespass into his past had roused only a defensive wariness, and Regan had back away from the topic quickly, both of them like exhausted prize-fighters in the tenth round, circling each other warily, too tired to throw or take a blow.

The door opened, startling him from his reverie, and Regan came in. She was a little disheveled and seemed flustered.

"Sorry," she said. "Got mobbed by the press pack." She tossed her briefcase onto the table and pulled out the chair next to McCoy.

"What did you say?" Danielle asked.

"No comment," Regan said, sinking into her seat.

Danielle frowned a little. "Next time, make sure you get in a line about your client's innocence, your confidence about the outcome. The jury isn't supposed to know but – "

"Godammit, Danielle, I've got enough on my plate without whoring to the press!" Regan snapped. There was a small silence, and Regan took a breath. "Sorry." She pushed her hair back from her face with a shaking hand. The gesture revealed a red mark on her cheekbone.

"What's that?" McCoy asked, and when Regan looked blank, he indicated the place on his own cheek. "On your face."

She touched the place and flinched. "One of the cameras got a little too close," she said.

And right then, McCoy discovered he wasn't too tired to be angry. "They _what_?" he demanded, leaning closer to get a better look.

"It was a scrum, Jack, there was some jostling," Regan said.

McCoy was on his feet. "Judge Wright has the power to ban them from the courtroom and I think – "

"I think we've got more important things to worry about," Regan said sharply. "Sit _down_." She held his gaze until he reluctantly sank back into his chair. "Serena, Mr. Curtis," she said. "What have you got?"

"Do you want to tell them?" Serena asked Curtis.

He shook his head with a smile. "You go ahead."

Serena took four files from her briefcase and laid them on the table. "Keri Dyson laid charges against Harold Grafton for assault in 2000," she said, resting her fingers on the first file. "In 2004, Barry Norrell hired Keri to work in his firm." She touched the second and the third. "In 2005, Nicholas Cherry gave Keri a substantial promotion when he brought her into the Identity Fraud Bureau out of appeals." She pointed to the fourth file. "And in 2007, Keri Dyson told Jack that he could escape criminal charges for assault if he got her a transfer to Narcotics."

One after the other, with the dexterity and flair of a card-sharp, Serena flipped open the files. The first held photographic prints of medical records. The second, third and fourth held photocopies.

"Which of these things is not like the other ones?" Serena asked smugly. "Oh, wait – _none of them._"

Regan reached for the files as Sally, Nora and Danielle crowded closer to the table, peering over her shoulder. McCoy leaned forward as well, gaze drawn to the medical report that detailed Keri Dyson's injuries, although he knew what was in it, could not have forgotten it if he'd tried even after that single reading in his office. _Cracked cheekbone, contusions, trauma to the lower and upper lip_ …

He tore his gaze away, forcing himself to look at the folder next to it, the one Serena had identified by the name 'Nicholas Cherry'. Instead, he saw the same horrifying list of injuries on an identical page.

McCoy blinked hard, and shook his head slightly. _Get it together. Stop imagining things. _The page refused to disappear. He closed his eyes for a moment, then forced himself to open them and look at the next folder, but again, all he could see was the catalogue of injuries he'd inflicted.

He sat very still, determined not to let the women around him know he had lost it, gone so far over the edge he was hallucinating.

"This is fucking fantastic, Serena," Regan said, her tone reverent. _What is_? McCoy wondered, but couldn't work out how to ask without betraying himself.

"Never blackmail lawyers," Serena said, a laugh in her voice. "Either they turn you in – or they keep excellent records."

McCoy looked again at the files in front of him, seeing only the evidence of what he'd done, who he'd become. _I have to get out of here_, he thought, tried to push back his chair but found Nora behind him, leaning over his shoulder. _I have to get out of here._

Clear as if she had leaned over and whispered in his ear, he heard Claire's voice. _You're not the man I knew, Jack McCoy_, she murmured, with the teasing note in her voice that always let him know she was smiling. _For one thing, you're way more stupid._

_Serena __**said**__ they were all alike. _

McCoy leaned forward, forcing himself to look at the files again, to look past the words that made his gut twist with memory. _All from Mercy General. All signed by Rob Jordan. All dated … _

_No. _

One dated last week. One dated August 2005. One dated May 2004 and in the last folder, photographs of the same file, this time dated June 2000.

_The same file. _

_Not the same file. All __**copies**__ of the same file. _

_All __**forgeries**__. _

There was a roaring in his ears, drowning out the voices around him. He looked at his hand, flat on the table, the hand that he had been unable to imagine as a fist striking a woman's face.

Not a failure of imagination, or a failure to accept responsibility.

_Not a failure at all_.

Relief swept over him, dizzying in its intensity. It wasn't true.

_It was never true. _

He looked up. Sally and Danielle were in intense conversation, debating courtroom tactics, as Nora listened. Regan had taken a legal pad from her briefcase and was making notes as fast as she could drive the pen across the paper.

"Regan," McCoy said.

"'Sec, Jack," she said, still writing.

"_Regan_," McCoy said, putting his hand on her arm. "I didn't do it."

"I know, Jack," Regan said impatiently, still half-distracted.

"No – Regan – " He wanted something more from her, some recognition of how momentously important this was, but the significance seemed to elude her.

The he realized that as far as she was concerned, it was no earth-shattering revelation.

Regan had never needed his innocence proven to her. _She never had any doubt. Not for a minute. No matter what I said – or did. _

_What did I do to deserve such loyalty?_

He didn't realize he'd spoken the last sentence aloud until Regan smiled, and covered his hand with her own.

"You saw that the water was up to my neck when I thought it was only knee high," she said.

McCoy shook his head slightly, in bemusement rather than negation, and Regan's fingers tightened on his.

"Regan," Sally said, and Regan turned away from McCoy and leaned forward. "We need to set up another practice cross-examination for you before Cutter calls Dyson on Monday morning."

"Sunday," Danielle said.

"Another?" McCoy asked.

"There's no point," Regan said, with a quick glance at McCoy that said _I'll explain later. _ "Cutter _knows_ she's lying to him. That's why he hasn't called her – he can't suborn perjury. And he _won't_ call her, either."

"Doesn't matter," Serena said. "You can introduce all _this_ – " She indicated the three last files, "in _your_ case after the People rest. And I think that with a few days I can talk Barry Norrell into testifying. He's pretty mad."

"Yeah," Curtis said from where he had been leaning against the wall, almost forgotten by the lawyers gathered around the table. "He was cagey at first but once I told him that he wasn't the only one, and that we had proof Keri Dyson had lied to him, he started talking pretty quickly."

"Okay, we'll list him as a witness – " Regan said.

"Not until Monday," Danielle cautioned. "You can legitimately wait until you're sure he'll do it – don't give Cutter any more warning than you can help – "

"What did you say you told Norrell, Detective?" McCoy interrupted.

"He didn't want to talk to me at all," Curtis said, "But once I told him we could prove that Ms Dyson's accusations were false, he opened up and told me everything, including handing over the file he'd kept with the medical records she'd used to blackmail him. His story is the same as yours. Memory loss, and then Ms Dyson turns up with bruises and a sob story and a proposal to let him off he gives her a nice new job."

"You told him you had evidence?" McCoy said.

"Yes," Curtis said.

"What's wrong, Jack?" Regan asked.

"I take it these photographs of a confidential medical record were not obtained legally?" McCoy said, pointing to the first folder.

"Since we're not planning to introduce them it's not – " Serena said.

McCoy shook his head. "You'd better stop planning to introduce _any_ of them," he said. "They're all fruit of the poison tree."

"That applies to illegal searches by the _police_," Danielle said. "Believe me, Jack, I've relied on it often enough at in_ limine _hearings to know."

"To the police _or their agents_," McCoy said. "We're in front of William Wright, leader of the cheer-squad for the Fourth Amendment. You, Detective Curtis, are a former homicide detective working in company with a former prosecutor on behalf of an attorney and client who are current, if suspended, members of the DA's Office. If you put Norrell on the stand and Cutter asks him about his conversation with Detective Curtis, all of this is going to be ruled inadmissible faster than you can blink. You'll be left with nothing but Norrell's word. What do you think _that's_ worth?"

"Shit," Serena said. "What if he doesn't say anything?"

"That's not a chance I'd like to take," Danielle said.

"We could cover off the issue in advance," Sally suggested. "Leave no reason for Cutter to ask the question. Mr. Curtis could take the stand to testify about his investigation and Regan could ask him – "

"Ms Bell, I wouldn't testi-lie for Mr. McCoy when I was a cop and I won't do it now," Curtis said.

"How are we going to get it in, then?" Regan asked, sounding as if she were on the edge of panic. "How are we going to get it in?"

"The only way is on cross," McCoy said. "You can use it to impeach – _if_ Cutter opens the door."

Regan shook her head. "He won't. He won't call her. He's too smart, Jack. He's too smart. He – "

Danielle put her hand on Regan's shoulder an instant before McCoy reached out to do the same thing. He let his hand drop back to the table as Danielle said reassuringly: "We'll figure something out, Regan, don't worry."

Regan's jaw set.

"Don't patronize her, Danielle," McCoy said. "Or do you want her to go play with her doll-house while the grown-ups sort this out?"

Danielle drew breath to reply and Nora Lewin held up her hands. "I don't know about any of you, but I am _exhausted_. And I don't think anything is going to be solved by us taking our lack of sleep and low-blood-sugar out on each other. So I suggest we adjourn until tomorrow morning. We can reconvene at Abbie's and look at this with fresh eyes."

"Not me," Serena said. "I'm going to Virginia."

"Virginia?" Sally asked.

"I got a line on Joe Evatt," Curtis said. "Your doorman, Mr. McCoy. He was working last Thursday night and hasn't been in since – or at home. But I finally talked to one of the neighbors who said his younger sister had a baby on Friday, almost three months early, and Joe took time off from work to go down to Richmond and be with his family."

"Do you know where?" McCoy asked.

"No, but how many hospitals are there in Richmond with neo-natal ICUs?" Curtis said. "I've got a photo from his employment records, we can flash it around and see if any of the nurses or medical technicians recognize him from visiting hours."

"We're going to drive down tonight," Serena said. "Stay over, hit the ground running tomorrow morning and track him down – see what he has to say." She hesitated. "And Jack – I won't screw up again."

"You didn't screw up," McCoy said, turning to include Curtis in that. "Either of you. You got the evidence – evidence I didn't even believe existed. We just have to be creative in how we use it." He looked at Regan, caught her gaze and held it. "And we will be."

She nodded, accepting his reassurance the way she had not accepted Danielle's.

.oOo.

* * *

A/N: **Fruit of the poisonous tree **is a legal metaphor in the United States used to describe evidence gathered with the aid of information obtained illegally. Like the exclusionary rule, the fruit-of-the-poisonous-tree doctrine is intended to deter police from using illegal means to obtain evidence. The discovery of a witness is not evidence in itself because the witness is attenuated by separate interviews, in-court testimony and their own statements, but I have stretched that in this story for plot purposes. The phrase is drawn from the biblical passage found in Matthew 7:17 and 7:18, which reads "Even so every good tree bringeth forth good fruit; but a corrupt tree bringeth forth evil fruit. A good tree cannot bring forth evil fruit, neither a corrupt tree bring forth good fruit."


End file.
